Frustration
by starrysummernights
Summary: "Is this a regular occurrence?" Sherlock asked, his dark curls already wilting in the heady steam of the bathroom. "You forgoing my body in favour of your own little hand?" Sherlock catches John during an intimate moment in the shower and draws his own, misguided, conclusions. Co-written with Emmish.
1. Chapter 1

**The idea for this fic came from the brilliant mind of Emmish, who prompted me with it during my 30 days of Christmas. I never got around to doing it justice, so the two of us teamed up to make it happen.**

**Enjoy :)**

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Sherlock woke quite abruptly to an empty bed and the persistent, almost deafening pound of heavy rain upon the window, the swollen drops sounding like ball bearings against the glass.

"John?" He mumbled sleepily, batting his hand around in the vague hope of coming into contact with warm skin. Finding nothing, he groaned and propped himself up on his elbows, peering about before clearing his throat and hollering, "_JOHN_!"

When he had no reply, he grimaced sulkily and yanked the duvet up over his head, cocooning himself into a grumpy, chilly lump under the covers.

He thought about trying to drift back to sleep but without John he was too cold.

With a mewl of frustration, Sherlock extended one long-fingered hand to the bedside clock, which mocked him with the digits 06.12am. He threw it across the room, taking obscene pleasure in hearing it smash against the wall, barely audible against the violent rain and the thunder which was birthing in a pregnant, grey sky.

John would probably get angry, but it wasn't the first clock Sherlock had destroyed- in one way or another- and so he wasn't very concerned. He flipped over in the bed, pulling the covers tighter around his body, glaring against the offending chill.

Sherlock wriggled in irritation under the duvet, steadily reaching an unwanted wakefulness. 94 seconds later, he jolted himself out of bed, after grumbling extravagantly and being irked by a lack of an audience. He hauled the heavy duvet off the bed, and shouldered it, before making his way, naked, bleary-eyed, and in a visibly bad mood out of the room, just as an ear-shattering peal of thunder and a stunning flash of lightning invigorated the atmosphere.

He jolted at the unexpected noise, despite himself, before steadying his nerves, the sudden scare making his mood, which had already been black to begin with, even darker.

Where was John?

It was hard to hear over the pounding of the rain, the torrential downpour which was currently soaking London, which was loud even in the hallway. Sherlock paused, staring further into the darkened flat, and that's when his ears picked up another sound, underlying the rain. Another wet sound, of water running, cascading down.

Shower.

He made his way with purpose toward the bathroom, adjusting the heavy duvet over his shoulder, which he snuggled to himself childishly as the chill of the flat permeated his pale skin. He paused for all of a second before grabbing the handle of the unlocked bathroom, opening the door, and closing his grey-green eyes briefly at the steam that drenched him almost immediately.

The heat contained in the small space was a welcome relief against the pervasive chill of the rest of the flat and Sherlock felt it seep through his duvet and tease along his skin, warming him deliciously as he silently closed the door to make sure no further heat escaped.

The detective took a few moments to soak up the delightful wet heat, his striking eyes closed, and took a deep inhale of the faintly citrusy humid air of the bathroom, before he opened his mouth to expound his complaints. He was, however, interrupted, as a distinctly choked groan reached his ears, and he stared at the mosaic of hot water-droplets and shuddering, familiar skin that made up the glass door of their shower.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sight. John stood beneath the warm spray of their shower, his head thrown back and eyes closed. The water sluiced down his skin in fascinating rivulets- down his neck, across his chest, teasing the edge of one dark, pebbled nipple, and trickling down his stomach and right on over his obviously hard, very red, throbbing cock, over which he was working his hand at a steady but feverish pace.

Short, desperate whimpers and sharp gasps were just audible over the cascade of the hot water. John was close, his body twitched uncontrollably. Sherlock could see him biting down hard on his bottom lip, and John's right hand clutched fruitlessly at the shower wall for some support, his dominant hand speeding exponentially, as did his almost-painful sobs, which the detective noted he was actively trying to restrain.

Restraint, Sherlock realised. John was trying to make no noise, was doing this under the cover of the roar of the shower and the monsoon raging outside. He was doing this covertly, touching himself, and starting to cant his hips forward, thigh muscles straining as he pumped his hips, chasing his release. He hadn't wanted Sherlock to find out.

Sherlock stood insensate as his doctor suddenly jerked violently, and shuddered, his right hand grasping the showerhead with brutal force as he ejaculated with a few short, sharp, repressed gasps and thick sighs.

Slowly, as the aftershocks of his orgasm faded, leaving his body a bit weak-kneed and trembly, John let out one long, shaky, satisfied sigh and opened his eyes. He started to wash away the evidence of his morning wank- only to suddenly become aware of the extra person in the room and start violently, his heart lurching in his chest.

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock approached the shower door with a dangerously blank expression. "John." There was a depth of bitterness in the timbre of his voice. Pulling open the shower door, he glared down at his doctor. "I see I come second to a furtive handjob in the shower."

John flushed, suddenly aware of the warm, sticky come on his hand, his cock still a little hard and plumped from the attention he'd lavished on it. And Sherlock's eyes, raking down his body, of course saw everything. John straightened his spine, cleared his throat, and turned to rinse his hand under the shower. He wasn't going to be made to be embarrassed over having a wank. "That's not how it is. You were asleep."

"Is this a regular occurrence?" Sherlock asked, his dark curls already wilting in the heady steam of the bathroom. "You forgoing my body in favour of your own little hand?"

Sherlock watched John's eyes narrow, sparking as he became just as angry as Sherlock was. Not just as angry, Sherlock thought, there was no way John could feel the level of anger, hurt, and betrayal he was currently experiencing at finding out John preferred his own paltry hand to him.

"A regular occurrence?" John repeated, voice flat but vibrating. Sherlock knew he would start shouting in a few seconds.

Sherlock squared up to his doctor, draping the duvet about his own torso as elegantly as he could manage, and stared down at John. His porous dark curls were now considerably damp and lifeless, but despite his nudity and bedraggled appearance, he still managed to exude an air of superiority. "We have been having sex approximately 19% less often than when we first engaged in a relationship. If I can no longer fulfil you, I would appreciate it if you just told me so."

"What- Sherlock, that's not it at all." John stressed, anger suddenly wilting in the face of Sherlock's argument which, if taken at face value, meant he'd hurt his boyfriend, made him feel unwanted. "You still...uh...fulfil me."

Sherlock raised a sceptical brow.

"You do. I mean...yes, I was having a wank…but it's not because I'm _bored_ with you. I just thought...well you were asleep and I didn't want to bother you. You always get stroppy first thing in the morning-"

"So this is my fault?"

_"There's no fault!_" John shouted, turning to fumble with the taps and turn the water off, brushing past Sherlock to get his towel, "I was just having a wank, Sherlock. It's what every male does when they want to let off a little stress. When they just want to get off quick. You don't have to be present for every single one of my fucking orgasms."

"I would prefer to be," Sherlock said quietly, before averting his eyes and nibbling the inside of his mouth. "Go to work. You're clearly not in possession of the physical or mental state to sort me out, so I'm going back to bed. Alone. Well, me and a friend," the detective added enigmatically, cuddling his duvet about himself, though the fabric mostly dragged along the damp tiled floor and didn't do a thing to cover his semi-erection.

John looked somewhat contrite but still angry and, as he spied Sherlock's cock framed by the duvet, he looked torn. "Sherlock...I don't care to...if you want me to..." John gestured wordlessly at the almost artfully framed cock.

"John, you are already seven minutes behind schedule. If you don't want to be fired, you'd better get dressed. You've already been late four times in the last fortnight. Oh, and you missed a spot," the detective instructed, pointing at his own jaw, the same spot that John had failed to raze while shaving.

Sherlock turned and left the room as artfully as was possible for a man wearing a damp duvet, and John clenched his fists in long-suffering temper. Sherlock's rejection stung more than he would've thought it would and John clenched his jaw as he stared at Sherlock's rigid, duvet-covered, retreating back. "Go fuck yourself, Sherlock."

"I intend to."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for all the comments, favorites, and follows! We are both of us very flattered the response this story has garnered.  
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**Enjoy :)**

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Sherlock was laying lazily on their bed several minutes later when he heard the door slam and his doctor stomp downstairs. Sherlock had dispensed with the duvet, and also the sheets of the bed, and was sprawled prostrate, completely naked, and suffering a wonderfully indistinct and passive, yet insistent, arousal.

His cock throbbed, pointing straight up, but he hadn't even touched himself yet, hadn't indulged in the decadent pleasure John was apparently so _very_ fond of.

John had kept stealing glances at Sherlock earlier as he paced around their bedroom getting ready for work, shooting furtive, sneaky looks at Sherlock's exposed body and his unashamedly hard prick. John's want for Sherlock had been palpable, in the way John's eyes had darkened at the sight, his tongue coming out to moisten his lips again and again, and his inability to tear his eyes away from his boyfriend. It had been almost enough to soothe Sherlock's hurt feelings. Almost. Not quite though.

John had still chosen his own hand over anything Sherlock had to offer, no matter how much he desired him.

With ostensible apathy, Sherlock opened the drawer of the dressing table and removed a few items, placing them on the bare mattress beside him. With a slightly vindictive grin, he spread his legs and settled elegant, pale fingers over his chest, teasing with only the faintest tickles.

John may have wanted to stroke himself as quickly as possible and be over and done with it, but, if Sherlock were going to have to do such a mundane task, he fully intended to make the most of it.

The detective let his steam-damp, glossy curls crush against the pillow, as he licked his lips.

"You're such a bastard, John," he whispered in a delicious, grating baritone. "But I love you."

His long, white fingers eased over his biceps and forearms, enjoying the tingling, and not-unpleasant sensation of contact on the scars of his track marks.

His skin turned to gooseflesh at the teasing sensation of his fingertips against his own skin and he sighed, long and pleasured. He traced his fingers back up and over his neck, arching, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

His breath caught in his throat in a sticky, choking gasp as he roughly groped his own chest, then paused and allowed twenty seconds of relative calm, his grey-green eyes flickering. Outside the hub of their bedroom, the storm was increasing in fury, and he shuddered as he tempted a quick grasp of his shaft, just as a particularly deafening crash of thunder almost made the window rattle, the tempestuous rain battering the flat relentlessly.

He groaned, his lips silently forming John's name, and tightened his grip on his cock, not stroking it, just holding it in his fist, teasing himself with the potential. The seconds stretched out. Sherlock could feel his heartbeat in his erection, his hips aching to thrust up into the tightness. He caressed one of his nipples and it hardened beneath his fingers as he tweaked it.

Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, he risked a few jerky thrusts into his fist. He took a deep breath and fumbled for the lubricant bottle and toy on the mattress beside him, taking some comfort in the reliable weight of the respective plastic and rubber in his hand.

He poured some of the lubricant on his fingers, spreading it around and around the digits to warm it up as he spread his legs. The gesture in itself was erotic, evocative of memories of spreading his legs in exactly the same way for John and Sherlock had to take his hand away from his pulsing erection, the memory threatening to push him over the edge too soon. He planted his feet on the mattress and reached down between his legs.

Swallowing, he closed his eyes and teased his entrance with one finger, imagining it was John knelt between his thighs, his own erection hard against his stomach as he worked Sherlock open, eyes dark and predatory. Sherlock jumped at a sudden shock of lightning and rumble of thunder, but recovered immediately, settling back into a firm, consistent massage.

Slowly, he relaxed into the touch, feeling himself open beneath his fingertip. He gulped as he pressed his finger inside, just barely, experiencing the always initial resistance of his body protesting, trying to tell him the odd feeling wasn't quite right.

As ever, he resisted his body's natural reaction, contrary to the last, especially when it would entail ultimate pleasure. He pushed in further, grunting faintly, and starting a pulse-like rhythm, avoiding his prostate for the present moment.

It wasn't long- it never was- before his body relaxed, accepted the touch, and Sherlock stroked deeper, still avoiding his prostate, not wanting this to be over too soon.

Huffing, he shifted further down in the bed, spread his legs a bit more to grant himself better access to his body, and slowly but inexorably pushed a second finger in alongside the first, biting his lip at the not-unpleasant stretch and slight burn.

He licked his plump lips indulgently, feeling the twinge of a dormant orgasm, but he forced himself to calm down once more, two long and dextrous fingers still buried inside himself. With his free hand, he scrambled for the vibrator, his inanimate neighbour in the stripped bed, and proceeded to slick it with lubricant, clumsily and without grace, with one hand.

Gone were his fingers in his arse as he positioned the toy at his entrance, fumbling with it slightly, the lube on both it and his hand making it hard to grip the toy and gain proper leverage to thrust it in. It took three failed attempts, the head of the vibrator slipping away from his hole and sliding down his arse-or once sliding slickly _up_ and across his perineum, sparking pleasure along his nerve endings and making his vision go slightly fuzzy at the edges.

Sherlock managed, with a reckless and desperate effort, to insert the toy fully in one go, with a strangled groan. He writhed for a few seconds, adjusting to the sensation of having something in his body, of being so very _full_, before fumbling with hot, wet fingers for the button on the rubber shaft. His dark, damp curls were beginning to plaster themselves to his pale forehead, and his face was an amalgam of pain and arousal, his grey-green eyes caught in a lustful frown, his breaths quick and urgent and noisy.

The click of the button was quiet in the rain-lashed bedroom but the vibration was almost completely drowned out by Sherlock's sharp, pained gasp as the toy buzzed to life inside his body. He groaned, body suddenly helpless under the onslaught of the toy's ministrations. His cock, still untouched, jerked frantically against his stomach, pre-come leaking from the tip and smearing across his overheated skin.

"Oh...Christ," the detective muttered, always stunned by the power of his personal device despite having used it multitudes of times. He forced it deeper inside himself, nudging it tentatively against his prostate. Gyrating on the stripped bed, Sherlock juddered and gritted his teeth. "John, _fuck_," he managed, talking, as he often did to his absent lover.

"Oh...fuck...please." He rolled his hips, fucking the toy into himself, pleasure rising so intensely that his skin prickled, his hairs standing at attention almost as much as his rock hard prick was. "H-harder, John. Please...harder. Fuck...me..." Each nudge against his prostate ramped his arousal, already at a hot, blinding level, even higher and Sherlock whined.

"John...fuck..._ugh_- _yes!_...I'm close…oh! Oh! _Yes_, John-p_lease-_" Sherlock, his entire body stiffening in preparation for what was sure to be an incredible orgasm, suddenly shuddered to an unbelievable, devastating halt as the batteries in the toy promptly weakened, giving a final few weak stuttering pulses, then died.

The detective halted in feverish disbelief, panting heavily, eyes wide in horror and staring at nothing, and uttered two simple words -

"…Oh…bugger."


	3. Chapter 3

**Happy Valentine's Day to all you lovely, lovely people! We hope you enjoy our present to you- an early posting of our story! Enjoy :)**

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Frantically tugging on his cock with quick, jerky movements, Sherlock desperately chased his urgently needed but fading climax. Failing to come, Sherlock, growling, levered himself up on his elbows once more, hurriedly removing his vibrator and shaking it, before retrieving the batteries from their compartment, peering at them to check for flaws before re-inserting them…and still finding no joy.

As a last ditch effort, Sherlock removed the batteries again and frantically rubbed them between his palms, creating enough friction to make them warm and hopefully prompt a precious few seconds of charge. Just enough to get him off with. He knew it wouldn't work but was desperate enough to try.

Replacing them with shaking fingers, Sherlock flicked the switch again but the vibrator lay useless in his hands.

Fuck.

The detective hurriedly seized his own mobile and tried to contact his partner.

"Pick up, pick up, pick_ up_." Sherlock growled through gritted teeth, listening to the irritating tones as John's mobile rang...and rang... Why wasn't he picking up-?

Then Sherlock heard it- down the hall- the tinny sound of John's mobile ringing.

He stood, expelling a feverish growl, and stormed his way to the living room, nude, and bereft of any sheet or duvet. Sherlock's face contorted into a scowl at the sight of the forgotten mobile lying on the table beside John's armchair, before enlightenment softened his striking features. With a malicious smirk, he picked up John's misplaced phone and hugged it close to himself, before heading back to the bedroom.

He afforded a tiny instance of sentimentality by giving the outdated smartphone a brief peck as he settled himself onto the mattress once more.

He flipped through John's phone until he found the right settings, changing the alert from tone to vibrate. He sighed resignedly that there were no further options- just vibrate. His own mobile had options to change the vibration pattern, even create one's own unique pattern, and Sherlock allowed himself a moment to think about that. But no. It wouldn't do. He would use John's mobile or not at all.

The detective placed John's phone against his eager cock, licking his cupid's bow lips once more and getting ready to multitask in order to suffer an orgasm via his lovers' mobile. Ideally, he would insert it, but he suspected that drenching John's phone in silicone-based lubricant and then trying to shove it up his arse would probably be construed as a bit not good.

With his free hand, Sherlock fumbled for his own mobile. John's contact was already highlighted and Sherlock pressed the call button. It was a few agonizing seconds later- Sherlock's heart hammering in his chest, his stomach twisting in anticipation- before John's mobile began to vibrate against his cock. It was weaker than Sherlock would have liked, but he used it to his advantage, stroking it gently over his aching prick, hissing at the teasing tingle that was just this side of _not enough_.

He had to keep dialling the number- the amount of missed calls on John's mobile increasing rapidly- and still Sherlock could find no release. Even after many minutes, focussed as hard as he could on pursuing his dormant orgasm, which he could sense was going to be particularly powerful, there was no luck. Even replacing his two fingers inside himself and rather vigorously fucking himself didn't quite do the job.

After a few more exasperating minutes, Sherlock shuddered in utter frustration and reluctantly gave up his efforts. With shaky, wet fingers, heaving for breath and sweating profusely, he abandoned the insufficient mobile and dialled the number of the reception of the surgery that John worked at.

Sherlock couldn't help squirming on the sheets impatiently as the tone buzzed in his ear.

"This is the Herschel Surgery. My name is Elaine. How may I help you?"

"I need to speak to John Watson." Sherlock replied. He could hear his voice shaking but couldn't be bothered to care. He needed John.

"I'm sorry, what was that, dear?"

Sherlock took a deep breath before enunciating, as he held his mobile in treacherously wet fingers. "I need to speak to John Watson. Matter of life and death. I'm his boyfriend."

He heard the receptionist take a scandalized breath. "Boyfriend? You're...you're John Watson's _boyfriend_?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, white hot anger starting to bubble to the surface as he processed her utter shock over the fact that John had a boyfriend. So John hadn't told anyone he worked with they were together. The knowledge that John had hidden it away as if he were ashamed of it…hurt. It seemed Sherlock would need to make a trip to John's place of work and let them know John was _his_.

"Yes. I'm his boyfriend." Sherlock's voice was sharp, biting. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. John and I have been together and shagging for months. I have personally fucked John until he couldn't articulate any other word besides my name and begging to let him come and, when he finally orgasmed, came so hard I was able to lick his ejaculate off his cheek. So, John Watson is very much taken- by me, in every way you can possibly imagine that to mean- and right now- this very minute- I need him. Put him on the phone."

There followed a pause so tangible that Sherlock knew she was almost too stunned to be affronted.

"…...I...he isn't here yet, he's...one moment," The receptionist managed to stutter through her embarrassment and shock, staring at the newly-arrived army doctor as he strode purposefully through the front doors. John caught the dubious, wide-eyed stare directed at him and paused, immediately anxious.

"What's up?" he asked, "Emergency?"

"…Not...exactly." She said, glancing between John and the phone. "You..uh..have a call. It's your...boyfriend?"

John opened his mouth in order to form a reply which didn't materialise for a few seconds. "...Fine, I'll...Just put it through, I'll be in the office in a sec." His voice was remarkably calm considering that Sherlock had effectively outed him to the whole staff. Without any warning.

Christ.

Chewing the inside on his mouth and feeling a cold sweat breaking out on his skin, feeling as if everyone were staring at him, John burst into his office with as much professionalism as one enraged ex-soldier could manage.

He collapsed into the chair behind his desk and, hesitating a brief moment, picked up the phone, pressing the flashing light which indicated he had a call waiting.

"Sherlock?"

The sound of soft panting was the first thing he heard, followed by an angry growl. "You haven't told your co-workers you have a boyfriend?"

"No, Sherlock, of course I fucking haven't! It's early days, isn't it? Christ, I would have told them, but..."

"It's been six months," the detective interrupted bitterly, still panting, but not as heavily. "...Do you _want_ to know why I phoned?...I did say, 'life or death.'...or is that less important than your idiot colleagues conjuring little pictures in their heads of you being fucked by a man?"

John flushed and checked to make sure the receptionist wasn't listening in on his conversation. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock." He reprimanded, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. He didn't need to think about the women he worked with tittering outside his office over whatever it was Sherlock had said. He focussed instead on whatever problem Sherlock had got himself stuck in. "I just left the flat less than twenty minutes ago. What've you got yourself in to now?"

Sherlock pushed the two fingers of his left hand more forcefully inside himself, ignoring, but not forgetting, his current disillusionment with his doctor as he nudged his over-sensitive prostate once more. A bead of sweat rolled from his wet curls, traversing his temple and sharp cheekbone, his whole body quivering relentlessly. He forced out his next words with some effort. "...Please...tell me we have more batteries in the flat. Somewhere."

"Batteries?" John repeated, mystified and more than a little put out. "Sherlock...did you call me at work to ask me where the fuck the batteries were?"

"Please...John..." Sherlock gasped, fisting his cock slowly. It wasn't enough. He needed more. "I need batteries."

John was suspicious. "For what?"

"S-Stay on the phone...I need to come, John," the detective stuttered frantically. "Where are they? Your phone isn't..." There was a faint, muffled groan, "...isn't enough."

"My phone isn't enough? You still need to..."John gulped as another shuddering moan ghosted down the line, suddenly realizing what Sherlock was doing. "You're getting yourself off?"

"Trying to," came the gritted-out reply, Sherlock whining with frustration. "_Please_, John."

John took one very long, deep, fortifying breath, exhaling slowly. "...We're...all out of batteries...fuck, why am I having this conversation," he murmured, releasing a familiar long-suffering sigh.

Sherlock tossed his head back against his pillow, writhing, and whined. "What happened to them?"

"You...I think you used them for some experiment. The one with the feet and the...the electrocution." John listened to Sherlock's increasingly panting breaths, visualizing his boyfriend wanking on the other end of the line, and felt himself twitch in his trousers. He'd only got off half an hour ago but listening to his boyfriend, desperate to come on the other end of the phone...

"Wait. What do you mean my phone's not enough?"

"My...toy...s'dead," Sherlock stuttered, attempting to push his slick, numb fingers even deeper into himself, pumping ever more violently into his right fist, the mobile slipping from its' perch on his shoulder to his mattress, spurring him to twist his sweat-soaked face and gasp against the phone in a panic.

"I tried using your mobile but it's...it's not enough. _Joooohn_." Sherlock twisted even more frantically against the bed. "I need to come."

"Your toy's dead?" John repeated "Since when do you have a toy?"

"...Since...since you're not...here," Sherlock managed. Biting down upon his luscious bottom lip, the detective sobbed gratingly, his deep baritone voice suddenly croaky and broken, "John...talk. Need to...John, talk to me," he wheezed, his head beginning to ache, his muscles screaming in protest, his blood pounding and his swollen cock pulsing madly in pursuit of a seemingly inaccessible climax.

"Oh my god." John whispered, the idea of Sherlock fucking himself on some as-yet-unseen toy making him thicken even more in unwanted arousal. He was at work for fucks sake! He was seeing his first patient in less than thirty minutes and here he was, half-hard in his trousers, listening to his irritating, insufferable boyfriend fuck himself on the phone and beg him to help him get off.

"Christ...Sherlock...I can't.."

"John…please...I need you to...talk to me. Please. I'm...so close but...I can't...can't...unnng."

Gnawing anxiously on his lip, the doctor hesitated for all of three seconds before replying in a choked voice that would betray his arousal to anyone, let alone a consulting detective. "What do you need?" he asked in an irrational whisper, adjusting himself in his chair, his spare hand subconsciously hovering near the flies of his jeans.

"T-talk to me." Sherlock commanded in a shaky voice. "Tell me...tell me what you would do to me if you were here."

John gave another glance at his phone, then glanced at the door, making sure it was shut and locked. He sighed. "God, Sherlock. I bet you're so hard right now. You've been wanking ever since I let the flat, haven't you? I can hear it in your voice. I can hear...hear how desperate you are. You're gagging for it, aren't you, love?"

Sherlock's response, a sharp, wordless exclamation of pleasure, was distorted as Sherlock's elegant head rolled away from the phone, and he pushed one more finger inside himself. After a few seconds, John heard a crackly gasp and a breathless reply.

"Need you to...fuck me...Close, but...can't," the detective babbled, almost incoherently. "Tell me...now...please."

"Could barely make myself go to work this morning, seeing you stretched on the bed. Naked. Your cock getting hard. I wanted to call in and fuck you all day." John took a deep breath, remembering the sight of his boyfriend from earlier. "I bet you're stretched out on the bed right now...if I were there I would join you. I'd...I'd kiss and lick my way up your legs. Your..." John had to pause and adjust himself in his trousers. "Your beautiful, long legs, already spread. Ready to be fucked. Like a fucking whore. Tell me how hard you are, Sherlock. Tell me."

"I'm going to_...fucking _burst," Sherlock seethed, gritting his teeth and writhing harshly, forcing three fingers into himself at breakneck speed, his arm and wrist muscles in over-worked agony, and a filthy, squelching rhythmic sound managing to out-do the now-dissipating rainstorm. "John quick...quick...tell me...tell me."

This time, it was John's turn to whine, rubbing at himself where he was hard and throbbing. "I'd suck you." He said, without preamble. "I'd take your lovely, hot, wet cock in my mouth and suck you. Make your eyes roll back in your fucking head. Take you as deep as I could. You're already so loose...I can _hear_ you fucking yourself, Sherlock. I'd make you stop, tell you to put your hands above your head and not move them. No matter what or I'd stop. And you know I would. So you'd keep them there. And I'd fuck you myself. You're already so loose I bet you'd take three of my fingers easily."

Sherlock let out an inhuman, grating howl as he felt himself nearing the precipice of orgasm, violently shaking, twitching, and sweating in a feverish madness. "J...John...gonna come!"

"Not yet!" John said quickly, fumbling at the zip of his trousers. Sherlock sobbed as John scooted down in his chair, fumbling one-handed and shaky to get his cock out and started stroking it quickly. "Oh, fuck...fuck...Sherlock..."

"...J-" Sherlock choked, his words throttled in his delirium, having just managed to suppress his threatening climax. "John...now...are you close?" The detective's speech was almost drunkenly slurred with endorphins and utter desperation.

"Almost..." John grunted, working his hand faster over his cock, shivering at how utterly wrecked Sherlock sounded. "Nearly...there...let me hear you, Sherlock. Come...come, Sherlock...don't hold back. .I wanna hear it..."

A few staggered, struggled gasps sounded, before three seconds of utter silence. Then, a ferocious, deafening yowl, like an injured wildcat, screeched into John's phone. There were multiple heavy bumping noises, ragged, breathless exhales, and finally, a gratified, shaky whisper. "...John, love you."

"Oh...oh...Christ...Sh-Sherlock..." John gasped for air, his hand a blur at his cock, mind conjuring up filthy, pornographic images of how Sherlock looked at that second, how hard he'd come- "Oh, fuck..."

The doctor wanted to scream at his repressed climax, instead biting fiercely into the fabric of his shirt sleeve, head crushed against his right arm, thrusting vaguely and only distantly acknowledging the hot, fresh semen that spurted over his left hand, and with the faintest wet sounds, on the carpet under his desk.

John's heart was pounding in his ears when he again became aware of where he was and what he'd just done. He still had the phone clamped between his shoulder and ear, semen was rapidly cooling on his hand, and Sherlock was softly breathing down the line. John moved quickly to prevent the come from sliding down his hand and staining his clothes- wouldn't _that_ be awkward to wear all day- wiping his hand on a nearby tissue and cleaning himself up as best he could.

Given that his appearance was vaguely socially acceptable at the moment, John murmured wheezily into his phone. "Sherlock? Are you okay? Talk to me."

A lazy, drawn-out hum answered him. "Yes, John." Sherlock sounded either drunk or almost on the brink of sleep. John smiled affectionately, wishing he were there to see Sherlock all boneless, debauched, and post-coital. Sherlock always got lazy after he came and John enjoyed snuggling with his detective during those times.

"It's alright for you," John said in a slightly broken voice. He cleared it audibly, still shivering a little from his orgasm. "You get to stay in bed all day if you want."

"Mmm.." Sherlock hummed again. "And you...get to spend the day with your co-workers who, until today, didn't know I existed." His indolent tone had melted away by the time he reached the end of his sentence and his voice was bitter and snappish again. It seemed his spectacular orgasm hadn't fogged his head where that was concerned.

"Sherlock, I just...well, it's too bloody late now. All done and dusted, apparently? Is it too much to ask that you relinquish your fucking, stubborn attitude for one day? If you want a fight, we'll do it properly, when I get home," John hissed.

All the good feelings from his frankly fantastic, illicit wank in his office evaporated in the face of Sherlock's reminder that there was a whole office full of women, some of whom he'd dated, to which he'd just been outed. He'd have to explain, something he wasn't looking forward to, and on top of that, Sherlock was angry.

Sherlock let out a forceful, irritable breath, then spoke into his mobile once more in a grating baritone. Sweat was still wrinkling the tips of his long fingers and his dark curls were soaked against his pale forehead. "John. I am aware we are going to fight later when you get back. Perhaps even physically. I look forward to it, as long as you end up de-stressing yourself. But there is one single thing that I would like you to give me, if you can."

"And what's that?" John asked, getting equally angry in return.

Sherlock's gloriously deep voice mumbled back to him, there was a very faint rustle of bedsheets, and then the detective continued. "Tell me you love me."

John frowned and sighed, suddenly feeling bad and ashamed of himself. "Of course I love you, you idiot. Of course I do."

"Good…. John? How are we supposed to have angry sex if you're not here?"

The doctor huffed a short laugh before Sherlock spoke again airily.

"Oh, by the way. I informed the lovely Elaine that you beg me when you're desperate to come with my cock inside you. And how much I like the taste of your seed when I lick it off your skin. I'm sure she's told everyone you work with by now."

John sighed, reluctantly allowing himself to smirk. "Ha ha, Sherlock. Even _you_ wouldn't go that far. I've got to work…we'll fight later," he promised.

The detective made a small, indifferent humming noise, which sounded as if it may have accompanied a careless shrug. "Enjoy your lunch."

John frowned slightly at the enigmatic words (Sherlock had never offered this particular benevolent statement before), before the line went dead, and he was left with an unsettling sense of dread, sitting alone in his office, the storm's fury finally surrendering to stillness with a few aborted spatters of cold rain against his office window.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and favorites guys! Sorry this update was later than usual- I (starrysummernights) have been on Baby Watch 2014 with my future sister-in-law and it's given me less time to write and edit :) Thanks for being patient.**

* * *

John hesitated outside the door of 221, glancing up at the windows which were, for the time being, empty and devoid of stroppy consulting detectives surveying their domain. For the first time in a long time, John wasn't really looking forward to going inside the flat. He knew Sherlock was waiting for him, still angry about this morning, and ready to fight with him.

After the day John had endured, fighting with Sherlock was the last thing he wanted to do.

He didn't, however, fancy shuddering into an embarrassing comatose death in the freezing London gutters, and besides, John had enough irritated vitriol to fire him to confront his bastard, son-of-a-bitch, sulky, fucker, beautiful, irresistible lover. The rain had long since abated but the air was still bestowing a vicious, burning chill he wanted to get out of.

John squared his shoulders and turned his key in the lock, moaning softly in gratitude when he was embraced with warmth the moment he stepped out of the icy cold and into the toasty foyer. He paused to listen, but no sounds could be heard from upstairs.

Filled with trepidation, gearing himself up for an epic fight that would probably make Mrs. Turner's married ones stare at he and Sherlock in wide-eyed disbelief the next time they happened to run into each other, John mounted the stairs.

The doctor shrugged off his jacket briskly and removed his shoes, his practically-ingrained, discontented frown marking his forehead. Opening the door to 221B, adrenaline pulsing encouragingly through his veins, teeth clenched in anticipation of a fight, John strode boldly into the living room.

After a few, wordless, breathless seconds, he swallowed thickly at the sight in front of him.

"...Sherl?" John asked, his logic dissipating in a matter of moments at the sight of his stunning lover.

Sherlock, the bastard, son-of-a-bitch, sulky, fucker, beautiful, irresistible lover in question, lay supine on the sofa, completely nude, his head tipped back, curls a dark, drenched halo around his head, framing his flushed cheeks and red, bitten lips. The detective's skin was practically covered in a thick, unclean sheen of sweat. Sherlock sighed shakily before his eyes fluttered open, taking in the sight of John standing in the doorway, frozen at the sight of him.

"You're late." Sherlock replied, voice husky and wrecked, his hands never stopping their desperate movements between his legs where he held John's mobile against his already hard and dripping prick, fisting it with a desperate determination that seemed to be gaining him nothing except more frustration.

"…Late?" John repeated, nonplussed. "_Late_?! Do you have any fucking idea _why_ I'm late, you selfish prick?" John asked, his anger returning in a sudden, hot swoop even as arousal spiked through his body at the picture Sherlock made on the sofa, debauched and gorgeous.

Sherlock's eyes, which had been half-lidded and clouded with lust, suddenly sharpened and he fixed John with a dark, angry expression of his own. The last vibrations from John's mobile died away, audible in the sudden hush of the flat, leaving Sherlock's cock jerking in his hand, seemingly forgotten about for the time being.

"Oh, Sherlock." John sighed, shaking his head. "Tell me exactly what you've been doing to yourself, love." He murmured, beginning to pick open his maroon shirt with leisure in his movements and a dangerous brightness in his dark blue eyes as he silently appreciated the detective's shivering, sweat-soaked skin.

"You would know if you had been here, John." Sherlock muttered petulantly, eyes dropping to watch John undress himself with undisguised lust. "Hurry up with that and come get me off."

John finished unpicking his buttons and, allowing his shirt to gape open, his lips gave an unsettling, humourless twitch. "I didn't have to be here to know what was going on. Apparently you've been wanking like there was no tomorrow and rogering yourself silly with a toy. You never told me you bought a toy, Sherlock. You kept it hidden away and only used it when I was gone- and had the fucking nerve to make me feel guilty for having a simple wank in the shower this morning. You fucking outed me today at work." John took a deep breath, his heart thudding in increasing rage. "Do you really expect leniency?"

"Leniency?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, giving his cock a quick stroke but stopping almost immediately, biting his lip to gain control, the head of his cock flushed a deep red in prolonged arousal.

John smirked at the sight, shedding his shirt and draping it over the back of his armchair.

"Leniency, when _you're_ the one who didn't tell your co-workers you were in a relationship?" Sherlock fired back, finally finding his voice even if it quavered a bit. "Were you embarrassed? Ashamed of dating a man? Or were you hoping to still get off with them, John? A bit of much-needed action to release some stress...since you obviously can't find that with me?"

That was it.

John had officially had enough.

He gritted his teeth as he crossed the room, stepped over the coffee table, and vaulted, with force and no remorse, onto Sherlock's crotch, his knees splaying to either side of his detective's hips, hands spreading possessively on his partner's pale, taut pectorals. Sherlock gasped hard, his beautiful features crinkling as his doctor writhed on him unexpectedly.

John nudged his own semi warningly against Sherlock's dark, tumescent shaft, grinning as it twitched and Sherlock emitted an undignified, barely-controlled squeak. John repositioned himself, pressing his arse provocatively against Sherlock's cock.

Biting his bottom lip with a pleasure bordering on sadism, John began to grind himself against the detective's plump erection with evident delight. "I am going to destroy you," he seethed. "Teach you...I can fucking get off whenever I choose..."

"John." Sherlock breathed, obviously not adverse to the idea if the way he hardened even further was anything to go by, and his fingers scrabbled for purchase until they dug into John's trouser-covered thighs, his hips circling up to grind himself more insistently against John's backside.

John, though, wasn't in an indulging mood and sat back, making it impossible for Sherlock to rub against him and retrieved his mobile from between Sherlock's legs, glancing at the screen emotionlessly. He quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock, who twitched involuntarily beneath him, the brunette's expression one of supressed lust contending with struggled belligerence.

"Four hundred and thirty-three missed calls, Sherl?"

John watched Sherlock's throat bob as he swallowed, cheeks flushing in both arousal and embarrassment as he licked his lips. "You weren't here. I...needed..."

"Mm…you _did_ need apparently. Did you manage it? To get off again? Or have you been rolling around in frustration for the best part of eight hours?" John asked, a suggestive, dark grin on his thin lips. Before Sherlock could answer, John smoothed his left hand through the considerable mess of clear stickiness that covered his detective's flat, white stomach, and proceeded to suck on his tainted fingertips in a display of pure filth.

"Pre-come. That's all. I know the difference."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open, watching John suck on his fingers, licking away the evidence of Sherlock's painful, protracted arousal. He'd thought he was sated after getting off earlier. His orgasm had been intense, magnificent, and had left Sherlock drowsy and languid, loose-limbed with pleasure. Less than an hour later, though, when he'd rolled over in bed, Sherlock's nose had pressed against John's side of the mattress, bringing with it the intoxicating, incredibly arousing smell of the said man.

He'd been hard, and trying to get off, ever since.

John smiled down at his stunned love. "What would you like, Sherlock? Would you like a kiss?"

The ashen-haired army doctor gritted his teeth as he gave a sharp, unexpected grind against Sherlock's bare, vulnerable, desperate shaft.

Sherlock gasped sharply, his hips bucking up at the contact, needing more. He'd been needing more all afternoon, unsuccessfully trying to get himself off with John's mobile and his own hand, both paltry and useless devices which had done no more than tease him mercilessly. They had been unable to bring him the relief he craved, the relief that he _needed_**.**

"Yes." He heard himself say, his voice breathy and slightly desperate but Sherlock only experienced the barest twinge of embarrassment. He was more concerned with kissing John and finally- finally- _finally_ getting off.

"Bedroom," John uttered simply, easing himself off Sherlock and casually wandering in the direction of their bedroom, slowly undoing his belt along the way.

Sherlock watched John leave in stunned disbelief for all of three seconds before his mind caught up with what John had said. He leapt from the couch and wobbled, on shaky, unsteady legs, after his doctor.

John closed the curtains and turned on the light with remarkable tranquillity before perching on the edge of their bed, calmly removing his jeans and socks and tossing them aside in a distracting flurry of fabric.

Sherlock's sharp eyes flickered slightly as he tried to coalesce the multitudes of stimuli which were afflicting him. It was harder to do than normal due to his all-encompassing arousal which pulsed and throbbed and _demanded_ to be taken care of. _Now_. It hadn't waned in his short trek to the bedroom and had, if anything, got even harder at the sight of John stripping off his clothes and throwing Sherlock dark, seductive looks.

"Come here." John said- no, Sherlock realized, _ordered_. _John ordered._

"You still...you've still pissed me off," Sherlock uttered a little tremulously, eagerly stepping forward, his dormant, righteous anger currently being swamped by utter desire.

John's eyebrow rose and fuck it, that shouldn't have been arousing. Sherlock was still angry. He knew he was and that he had every right to be. He just…couldn't remember…. He rooted around in his mind for the tendrils of righteous anger which were trying to elude him. "You didn't tell your co-workers about us." Ah, that was it.

John peeled away his underwear and sat quite complacently and nakedly on the edge of the bed, giving Sherlock a dark-blue, gimlet eye.

"And you didn't tell me that you had a toy stashed away."

"I hardly think possessing a secret sex toy is on par with hiding the fact we were dating, John." Sherlock replied sarcastically. "Besides," he sniffed, adopting a superior expression, "_you_ were the one indulging in an illicit wank in the shower this morning. What else was I supposed to do when my boyfriend is…unable to satisfy me?"

John abruptly stood up and, with stunning acuity and skill, disabled Sherlock with a few sharp, precise blows from expert palms and fists. Wrestling Sherlock to the bed, John quickly tied the momentarily incapacitated detective to the headboard with Sherlock's own scarf- handily pooled on the bedside table- and straddled Sherlock roughly.

Sherlock stared up at John, surprised, angry, and more than a bit turned on at being so thoroughly outmanoeuvred by the ex-army doctor. He jerked at his wrists, testing the bonds, and moaned in pleasure when they held. Of course they held- John had been the one to tie the knot. And in classic John-style: not too tight, nothing to cause Sherlock pain, but just enough to hold him firmly. Sherlock knew, from previous experience, that he wouldn't be able to escape until John released him.

"You're a _fucking_ bastard, Sherlock." John hissed, eyes narrowed in anger. "Selfish and ever only thinking of yourself. You _never_ think about me. You were angry this morning because I had a fucking _wank_ and so you outed me to everyone. Do you have any idea what it was like today? For me? Do you even _care_? I wanted to tell people on my own terms. Now everyone thinks –"

"Everyone thinks _what_?" Sherlock spat, wriggling awkwardly to sit up and getting closer to John's enraged face, his own anger and indignation at John's erroneous accusations rising.

"That I'm a fucking _queer_!" John hissed at him, quaking with fury as he shoved Sherlock back down flat on the bed with a lot more force and bitterness than he'd intended.

"And are you not, John?" Sherlock asked innocently, arching an eyebrow and giving John an amused look. "I would believe some of the activities we have done would be considered _highly_ queer. Or did you think you could escape with your heterosexuality intact after sucking my cock?"

John gave him a stark, cold glare, before swallowing visibly and heaving in a few fortifying breaths. "Do you have any idea what my _fucking_ break was like? After your little…revelation?"

Sherlock smirked, settling back, not looking the least bit repentant. "Fun, was it?"

Sherlock's blasé attitude at John's suffering confirmed what John already suspected and made him angrier.

The doctor gritted his teeth and pursed his thin lips as he recalled the excruciating day he had suffered at work.

* * *

Sending off his last "morning" patient at 1.40pm, John had downed his stagnant, cold coffee carelessly, then stood, stretched, and groaned faintly as he prepared to leave the sanctuary of his office and face his colleagues for lunch. By his approximation, there were twelve staff on today, none of whom he particularly liked, one who was an utter dick, and three women with whom he'd slept with. John's anxiety had matured into utter fear and he was now sure that Sherlock had not been kidding when he claimed to have bragged to the receptionist earlier.

There had been..._something_ _different_ in Elaine's tone of voice- a surprised, scandalized _something_- which had nagged at John's mind all morning.

Then, John had caught a glimpse of Patricia, one of the regular nurses, as his office door swung closed behind one of his patients. She'd been wide-eyed, positively _craning_ her neck to get a look at John as if he were an attraction in a zoo.

He'd caught glimpses all morning of the staff clustered together, in groups of twos and threes, outside his door as he greeted his patients, and John knew he was being irrational to suspect they were talking about him but…

John cringed. Surely Sherlock wouldn't have... Even Sherlock would have known better than to say what he claimed he had.

John would have preferred to take refuge in his admittedly chilly office all day and avoid the inevitable confrontation with his co-workers, but he was starving. Bracing himself, clenching his fists stoically in a habitually comforting motion, John exited his office, avoiding eye contact as he walked down the hall and trying his very best to appear nonchalant.

He felt the eyes of one of the trainee female doctors on him as he passed the nurses' station, and John felt his skin tingling with an unwanted, unpleasant blush. Usually, he would've attribute her stare to admiring him, thinking he was handsome by the way he held himself or the way he walked. Shallow and full of himself, John knew, but there it was.

Today, though, the stare made John want to sink through the floor.

He made it to the break room, managing to fight off his blush in the short walk, and braced himself for whatever lay ahead.

John didn't have long to wait.

The small room was filled with his co-workers, most of whom had a salad or sandwich in front of them, sipping diet drinks and water, and all conversation died as soon as John walked through the door, leaving an oppressive, uncomfortable silence.

Jason, a doctor in his early thirties who John had always disliked, thinking he was too smarmy and full of himself, cleared his throat pointedly as John made his way to the machine for a fresh coffee, though he suspected his nerves wouldn't be helped by the continued ingestion of caffeine.

John ignored him, affecting nonchalance and selecting a cup.

There was a tremulous, palpable silence, and the squirt of cheap commercial coffee dousing John's paper cup was almost deafening in the long, excruciating twenty seconds that it took to fill it up. The rain outside had long ceased, but the room was drenched in a faintly damp, grey, and thoroughly dispiriting atmosphere.

Everyone's eyes were on him and they felt like knives boring into his back.

John added a bit of sugar to his coffee and turned around, with a sinking stomach, to face the stares.

Patricia was the first person his eyes landed on and she gave John a bright, horribly fake smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of salacious gossip.

"John! So how long have you and Sherlock been together?"

John hesitated, considering what sort of answer to give as he sipped his bitter coffee, glancing at the window as if to find divine inspiration in the grim, melancholy skyline. He nibbled his bottom lip, about to reply, when Jason piped up.

With his ridiculous spiked hair, puce chinos, and a generally obnoxious and superior demeanour, John could barely tolerate Jason at the best of times. He was a sexist pig and naturally thought he was god's gift to women.

"Yes, how long have you been taking it up the arse?"

There was a shocked chorus of snickers and giggles and Jason smirked viciously, glancing around the room arrogantly.

John felt his vision narrow in sudden anger, a rushing sound in his ears muffling the din of his co-workers laughter, and his jaw was clenched so tight he could hear his teeth grinding together.

"A while now." John snapped, and abruptly all the laughter and snickers died away. His co-workers gaped at him. "About the last six months."

There were a few seconds of pregnant, tense silence.

"Well. That's nice, isn't it, dear?" Debbie, an older nurse with a kind, weathered face said mildly, smiling at John.

"Your boyfriend's not very discreet," a younger nurse called Chrissie piped up boldly, breaking the quiet, contrite atmosphere. "You should put a gag on him."

"He'd probably love that," Jason responded snarkily, heralding another scarcely repressed wave of giggles.

John had never wanted to punch someone in the face so much as he did Jason in that moment. He reeled himself in, though. It wasn't the thing to go punching one's co-workers while still at work.

Later, on the other hand….

"But seriously, John" Jason said, not looking at all serious, his lips twitching in a vindictive smile. "_You_? A poof? From the way Melanie was bragging you were straight."

At this remark, the pretty, dark-haired woman in the corner busied herself with her tea, adding unnecessary amounts of sugar and picking cucumber out of her salmon sandwiches with the intense concentration of someone disarming a bomb.

"And Marie," Jason said quietly, but perfectly audibly, taking a casual swig of his tea and gesturing to the woman in question, a leggy redhead with a sour expression on her face.

John internally winced. Things had ended spectacularly badly with Marie. All thanks to Sherlock, of course. She'd actually been the last woman he'd dated before he and the mad man he lived with decided to start dating.

"I don't know." Marie drawled, looking bored and rolling her eyes. "Looking back on it, and the way things were...it makes sense now that John was gay. I mean, no offense, John, but your performance in bed was….well. Less that's said probably the better, yeah?" She offered John a cruel smirk.

Jason laughed, but he was one of the few that did. The others looked slightly strained and sick, embarrassed for John as if their innocent ribbing had taken a turn they didn't like.

"Mmm…according to what Sherlock told Elaine John's quite the firecracker in the sheets. Begging and writhing in blissful, homosexual ecstasy." Jason chuckled, eyes glinting maliciously.

John chewed the inside of his mouth, struggling mightily to restrain himself. With a deep breath, he stretched to his full height, the dark, dangerous indigo of his eyes easily offsetting his less-than-threatening small stature.

"All right, yeah, you got me- I'm with a man. Yes, I love him. Yes, I sleep with him and yes, he can be a bastard, but I'd rather spend twelve hours with him in his worst mood than another minute with any of you. Have a good afternoon," John snapped, slamming his half-empty coffee cup into the bin and storming out.

And John, fuming and red-faced, fully intended to go back to his office and eat his lunch in peace, perhaps while searching for a new job, when Jason's oily voice drifted out into the hall.

"Probably just needs a good fucking. Top or bottom, though? C'mon, any takers? That fairy he dates may have said he fucks John but I've seen pictures of him. That Sherlock fag looks so slutty I bet he rolls right over and begs John to fuck him, like a dog. Fucking disgusting."

John halted abruptly, swallowing his anger like a bitter bolus. If Sherlock were here, he would stride up to Jason and effortlessly deduce a handful of embarrassing and/or devastating personal facts, and leave him a mortified, speechless wreck. John's own mind, however, apparently refused to comprehend much more than the obvious option of shutting the little prick up – marching back into the staff room, knocking him to the ground and kicking his teeth in.

Seething, John pivoted sharply and marched, spine rigid and shoulders squared, back to the employee break room.

"What did you say?" He asked, voice low and menacing.

His fellow employees exchanged worried, uneasy looks.

Jason ruffled a hand through his gelled spikes and grinned. "No offense, John, it's all in good fun. It's just...well, after having so many women, you'd naturally go for a bit of a slutty ladyboy."

The insult to Sherlock made John even angrier, the casual way it was said set his teeth on edge, and he could feel himself smiling at Jason even as his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Jason continued airily, unaware of the threat which was looming closer. "I suppose once you turn the lights off it all feels the same, whether you're fucking his arse or his throat-"

In the damp, chilly, and silent atmosphere of the inadequately heated staff-room, the crunch of cartilage was practically deafening.

A collective, stifled chorus of gasps, screams, and groans swelled into the air as John winced and shook his left hand, wiping away the scarlet blood smeared across his knuckles with a grimace.

The situation devolved quickly from there.

Jason, blood streaming over the lower half of his face, nose dripping fat drops of crimson onto his shirt and spattering the tiles, gave an enraged growl before launching himself at John, catching the army doctor around the middle in a sudden rush.

John, already braced for the attack, reflexively kneed Jason in the crotch hard, twisted sharply, and with a force and strength that belied his small stature, wrestled Jason onto his back on the grubby, crumb-adorned staff room floor. John pulled back his already-bloodied fist for another brutal punch, only barely aware of the faint, horrified vocalisations in the background.

"Stop!" Jason shouted, hands held in front of his face in a defensive gesture, a weak attempt at warding off John's imminent blows. "Stop, stop, stop! I- I didn't mean anything by it!"

John noted, with a perverse curl of satisfaction, that Jason's teeth were stained red and his nose was most definitely broken.

Not for the first time, John briefly entertained the idea that he was a sadist. In the moment, anger pumping hotly through his veins, he couldn't find it in him to care, but it was something John knew he'd worry about later.

John fixed the trembling man beneath him with a piercing, threatening gaze, letting the seconds tick by and listening as Jason's pleas got more and more frantic…and then eased himself off of his colleague.

"Count yourself lucky," John murmured darkly.

* * *

Now, hours later, with his trembling boyfriend stretched beneath him, wrists tied to the headboard, helpless and feverishly aroused beneath him, John decided that yes, he was most definitely a sadist.

But, as Sherlock arched, mouth open, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed and cock hard, John was comforted that if he himself was a sadist, his chosen love was most assuredly a masochist.

"Oh, John. Defending my honour?"

"You don't deserve it," John leaned forward, biting down sharply on his detective's nipple for his own selfish satisfaction. After soaking up Sherlock's deep grunt of pleasure, he spoke again. "Want to hear what happened after that?"

"Mmm...I can deduce it." Sherlock replied breathlessly, eyes roving over John's body in an invasive perusal. He tugged fruitlessly against his restraints, throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. The idea of John so manfully defending him against the slander of his co-workers making his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with sex or arousal.

"Go on then...tell me the story," John mumbled, leaning down to suckle on Sherlock's pale, pulsing throat, whilst grinding relentlessly, yet agonisingly slowly, against him.

Sherlock's gasp caught wetly in his throat, eyes going wide under the onslaught. He bucked his hips up, hoping to increase the much needed friction to his cock but was, again, denied.

Almost whining in frustration and need, Sherlock shakily replied. "Two of your female co-workers pulled you away from Jason even though you were already through with him. Punching pleading men is hardly your style- even if you wanted to. Oh, John- please! _Please_?"

"Please?" John asked, a competing thrill of amusement and admiration in his dark-blue eyes. "Tell me more. You're doing well so far," he rewarded, reaching down and giving Sherlock a few languid, strong strokes.

Sherlock choked out a sharp cry, eyes slamming closed and spine arching. His cock pulsed, a trail of pre come spooling from the red slit. Worried John would stop and take his hand away, Sherlock hastily continued, licking his plump, cupid's-bow lips before speaking. His thighs and stomach quivered visibly as his dormant climax tortured his long-suffering muscles.

"You left the break room on your own, intent on retuning to your office to- to pack but were called into a meeting with the director minutes later. Less than five minutes later actually." Sherlock said in a breathless rush, trying to fuck himself in John's fist in short, aborted thrusts. "You were fired- the reasons you gave for your behaviour brushed aside and Jason only received a slap on the wrist."

John grinned, a shadow of malice in his dark eyes at being reminded of the unfair treatment. "Good boy." He casually removed his hand from Sherlock's swollen shaft, absorbing the resulting strained wail of desperation with pleasure.

"And what do you think of all this? Your...opinions on my actions," John muttered, giving one teasingly light stroke to his detective's length.

Sherlock jerked so hard against his restraints he knew he would have bruises later. At the moment, he couldn't be bothered to care.

He needed to come so _badly_.

It was like a fever in his body. His testicles were drawn up tight against his body, ready to release. His cock pulsed in a helpless, desperate rhythm. His heart fluttered and he couldn't get enough air.

"I...I don't...John...please. I need..._please_ let me come. _Please_." Sherlock babbled in a delirium of need, still jerking at his restraints as if he would be able to free himself.

He was so close.

He couldn't even concentrate on what John was saying, what he was asking him. All Sherlock could concentrate on was the slow, agonizing slide of John's hand and his elusive orgasm.

"I asked you a question, Sherlock. Apparently you've chosen not to answer," John said, his voice cracking a little and he had to clear his throat before enunciating anything else. He shivered as a piercing lightning strike illuminated the bedroom, casting Sherlock's skin an even more violent blue than his usual, pale translucent flesh allowed. He kept up his barely-there caress of Sherlock's cock, watching with rising need as his love twitched and jerked and strained into the touch like a dying man in his final throes.

"Answer?" Sherlock's voice was wrecked, shaky and needy and distressed. "Answer...what? John...oh! _Ohhhh_! I'm...I'm c-close! Oh…thank you! Thank…._Yes_! Oh god..._oh-oh-oh_-" Sherlock pumped his hips up, eyes slamming closed as he felt himself tipping over the edge-

Abruptly, John let go of his admittedly weak grip on Sherlock's shaft.

Sherlock cried out as John let go of his cock, denying him his already long denied orgasm. Sherlock thought, for a few dizzying, breathless seconds, that he would come regardless, his shaft a painful looking dark red, almost purple, twitching wildly where it had been so heartlessly abandoned. Sherlock, staring down at it in anguish, tried desperately willing himself to come.

Unfortunately, he had no such luck and remained on the brink, shaky, unsatisfied, and needy.

John sat back and, biting his bottom lip as he knelt above Sherlock's knees, took hold of his own hard cock. He immediately started a forceful rhythm of mindless, animalistic thrusts into his own fist, exuding constant, shaky groans.

"Sherl...you...fuck...got me…fucking...fired...shit..." John watched Sherlock writhe hopelessly against the mattress, actual tears of frustration in his eyes as he helplessly watched John pleasure himself, denied the option of doing so to himself.

John literally screeched when he finally came, jaw clenched, hips pumping wildly as he ejaculated over Sherlock, spurt after spurt landing on Sherlock's chest, shouting out sounds of overwhelming pleasure. Vindictively, John directed his pulsing cock over Sherlock's own cruelly denied cock and balls, dripping his final dribbling pulses of come over the painfully erect shaft tauntingly.

John shivered violently, tightly closing his eyes, mouth open, chest heaving, riding out the final waves of his orgasm. Shuddering through a few thick exhales, he licked his lips, groaning in utter satiation.

"...Oh...fuck yes," he mumbled deliriously, slowly becoming aware, through the fog of his orgasm, of Sherlock twisting beneath him, gasping for air as though he were being suffocated, each exhale ending in an agonized, pitiful moan.

John swallowed, and opened his eyes to grin at his debauched love. "Did you like that, Sherlock?" He asked, unable to resist giving another teasing stroke to Sherlock's cock, rubbing his own come into the tumescent shaft, taking his hand away before Sherlock could gain any satisfaction from it.

"Because," John panted, "that's the only gratification you're going to get tonight."


	5. Chapter 5

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John smirked, casually wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead and damp, sand-coloured hair, and left the room, to the pronounced, insistent groans of his detective. He made his way to the living room and picked up his discarded, abused phone, quietly amused, once again, at the number of missed calls.

John had re-entered the bedroom when he felt the vibration indicating a new text message.

Sherlock, squirming on the mattress, torn between wanting to strangle John and hoping he was coming back to finish him off, watched as John made his way closer to the bed, his eyes trained on his mobile.

"Who..." Sherlock had to clear his throat, his voice raw from moaning and begging. "Who's texting you?"

John settled on the mattress and ran his hand soothingly over Sherlock's violently twitching thighs as he thumbed through his phone. "It's Melanie. Wants to meet up after what happened today. You know who she is?"

They both inadvertently jerked as another brutal shock of deep, deafening thunder and startling blue lightning pervaded the flat.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he tried to remember where he'd heard that name before. It was stunningly hard to concentrate at the moment, hard to even _think_ with his cock still impossibly hard and throbbing insistently between his legs. And John wasn't helping, sitting beside him, enticingly naked, calloused hands stroking his thighs but avoiding the one place Sherlock really wanted- _needed_- those hands touching.

"Melanie...friend of Harry's?" Sherlock finally guessed, eyes riveted to where John's hand was still continuing its lazy stroking, inches from his tightly drawn sac.

John chuckled openly, his boyish, thin-lipped grin as enticing and enchanting to Sherlock as it had ever been, even when he was teasing him. "Actually, no. She's one of my...what would you call them - conquests?"

Sherlock felt hot, possessive anger surge in his chest and he bared his teeth, futilely jerking against his restraints- though what he would have done in the slim possibility of actually freeing himself...he didn't know. Grab the phone from John and read the message? Text this Melanie back and let her know John was taken? That John was _his_? Throttle John- John with his smiling face and gorgeous body?

"Why is she texting you?" Sherlock bit out, aware of John's amused stare, as if he knew exactly what was going through Sherlock's mind and loving it.

The doctor cleared his throat indulgently, still entertaining a delightfully smug grin. "She wants to meet up. Feels bad for me after what you did today," John chuckled again. "She might want to try again. This text is rather…flirty. She wouldn't be the first of them I've fucked, you know."

Sherlock froze in his struggles at John's casual pronouncement of his past dalliances. He'd known John had..._dabbled_ in the office pool of eligible co-workers but he didn't like the reminder of the fact being thrown in his face. It made the hot, jealous anger in his chest double, then triple, in intensity as he imagined a lithe, gorgeous woman with firm, pert breasts spreading her legs for John and moaning as he thrust into her.

The tormenting visual- which he wished he'd never indulged himself in- burned like acid in Sherlock's mind.

"Obviously she wasn't anything special since your relationship with her didn't last very long." He finally managed, trying not to wonder if John had enjoyed sex with the faceless Melanie more than he did with him. "And yes, we both know you've slept with a couple of co-workers." He continued breezily. "Very crude of you to brag about it, John."

"Guess how many," John murmured, before taking Sherlock's swollen shaft in his mouth for a few deep, hard, promising suckles. He lifted off at the moment the brunette grimaced violently, his cupid-bow lips contorting just as his body tremored at the edge of a mind-blowing, long-awaited climax.

"John- _please_." Sherlock all but sobbed, his hands fisted in the scarf that still bound him, body trembling uncontrollably from head to foot, "Please- let me, _please_!"

John licked his lips and greedily savoured the tang of Sherlock's pre-come and the taste of his own ejaculate on his tongue.

"Guess how many." He prompted again, smoothing his hands along the insides of Sherlock's thighs, feeling the muscles jumping beneath his palms.

"I...I…" Sherlock seemed incoherent, blinking rapidly as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. "I…I can't…think," He confessed quietly as his body gave a violent shudder and he closed his eyes, whimpering.

Chuckling, ignoring the shuddering detective whose ebony curls were a sweat-soaked, wilted mess upon his overheated, damp skin, John moved to the dresser on Sherlock's side of the bed. Pulling it open, his eyes fell instantly upon the lifeless vibrator.

Unlike his partner, John didn't feel the urge to rummage through other people's things on a regular basis, and therefore he'd never pried into this particular drawer. Sherlock might have had this toy for years, for all he knew.

John arched an eyebrow at the sight of it, surprised at its considerable length and girth.

"Oh, Sherlock, you _have_ been naughty." He said, taking the vibrator from the drawer and looking at it properly, still rather amazed Sherlock- Sherlock Holmes- used a sex toy to toss himself off with. Not only that, but one that was so... _big_. John felt a twinge of unease as he curiously inspected the vibrator. He knew he was perfectly average in length and width and Sherlock had always seemed to love his cock but he was uncomfortably aware that he fell a bit…_short_ in proportion to the toy.

"How long have you had this bad boy?" He asked, licking his lips once more and giving Sherlock's thigh a promising squeeze.

Sherlock didn't even open his eyes. "That particular model or do you mean a toy- toys- in general?"

"Tell me both."

"I've owned various toys since I was a teenager." Sherlock said, opening his eyes to watch John caress and fondle his toy with undisguised lust. "It's always been...difficult- almost impossible- for me to reach orgasm on my own. I quickly realized I needed either the aid of someone else or, since I detest most people, the aid of a toy. I've had multiple ones throughout the years…but I bought that one months ago, shortly before we started having sex, because I thought it would help me...acclimatize myself to being penetrated regularly."

John swallowed with barely-restrained arousal, his eyes flickering tellingly as he glanced over his partner's shivering body, which was a glorious study in absolute want.

"Christ, Sherlock...you...need something inside you?" He asked, even though Sherlock had pretty much already made this fact clear.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes...and no. I...I've used fleshjacks and other things before to great effect- and I've had sex with you without anything inside me…but it's always...When I'm alone…I've always r-rather preferred having something in…me." He whispered the last bit and, if he hadn't already been flushed in heated arousal, Sherlock would have been blushing. There was something very naughty in talking about his sex toys with John. It made him feel caught-out, like a schoolboy awaiting a reprimand from his professor.

John heaved out a tremulous exhale, hardly bothering to hide his excitement at Sherlock's blunt, intimate pronouncements. "Well. I got you something," he murmured, going to his discarded trousers and rummaging hastily through the pockets, pulling out a few packs of various types of batteries.

"...That's why I was late," he managed, settling back on the bed and eyeing his lover before relenting and giving Sherlock a few powerful, bruising kisses to his hip.

Sherlock gasped under the onslaught. The idea of John- _his_ John, having just admirably defended him against the slander of his co-workers- stopping off at Tesco and buying batteries just for this…knowing, even as he stood placidly in line and then straight-facedly handed over his money to the cashier, what he'd be using the batteries for later, was deliciously, sinfully erotic. Sherlock's erection, dark red and weeping at the tip, brushed against John's neck as his doctor lavished kisses against his skin- everywhere but where he most wanted- and Sherlock whimpered.

"Sherl," John uttered gratingly between sloppy, wet kisses "I will give it to you." Relishing the heady scent of his detectives' arousal, John lowered himself between Sherlock's legs, easily pulling the long, lithe, damp thighs over his own shoulders. John grinned fiendishly at Sherlock's feral, hopeful growl, before ramming his tongue deeply, and without warning, inside his partner.

Sherlock cried out and spasmed in surprise, his back arching, vision whiting out at the edges as John squirmed his tongue deeper inside his arse. Sherlock bucked his hips, breath ragged and fierce, unable to stop the desperate, grating cries which tore from his throat as John licked him.

John had acted on impulse, pure instinct. He could barely fight his surprised, satisfied grin as he continued tonguing Sherlock for the very first time, listening to his partner cry out above him. He'd refrained from doing this in the past, thinking it'd be off-putting but it was better than John could have thought, easier, and if he was able to reduce Sherlock to _this_, just by a few swipes of his tongue, John was more than pleased to do this again and again.

He was forced to exert hard pressure with both hands to keep Sherlock's overheated, helplessly-bucking hips still, though his sweat-sheened thighs still crushed John's head involuntarily with every bold swipe of his tongue, forcing John into a lightless, sex-scented, delicious claustrophobia.

_"John...John...John_..." Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care that he was irreverently chanting John's name like a broken record. All he cared about, all his focus, was on John and what his delightfully wicked tongue was doing between his legs. John had never done this to him before but Sherlock had fantasized about it a few times. He hadn't brought it up though, assuming it wouldn't be something John was interested in, and would be considered too queer or highly unsanitary by the scrupulous doctor.

Now, with John repeatedly burying his tongue into Sherlock's arse, mimicking what his cock usually did to great effect, flicking the agile muscle teasingly around the sensitive rim of Sherlock's hole before diving back in, Sherlock was happily shouting himself hoarse, fully aware that he was rapidly losing control of his body and his reactions.

Just as Sherlock's leg muscles began to tense and quake threateningly, John pulled back, biting his bottom lip in muted glee at Sherlock's choked off, agonized moan. Hot sweat was actually making sweet, sumptuous webs of Sherlock's eyelashes now, and his breaths were heavy and rasping enough to make any general practitioner concerned.

"Breathe, Sherlock." John murmured soothingly, reaching beside him for the toy and selecting the correctly sized batteries. "Just breathe, love. You're fine, Sherlock, you're fine. Just breathe."

Sherlock, his eyes closed and body quaking like a leaf in the wind, tried to follow the gentle advice, obediently sucking in deep, trembling lungfuls of air and whooshing them out. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way. This out-of-control. This desperate. He didn't feel as if he would ever be able to come. It seemed he would be forever trapped here, in this horrible, aching limbo, denied what he needed most again and again. He couldn't remember how many times John had had him there, at the crumbling edge of his orgasm, only to cruelly jerk it out of his reach once more. It seemed impossible now that he'd ever be satisfied.

Sherlock struggled through another deep inhale, before enunciating in his beautiful, rumbling, now-wrecked baritone, "I...need to come, John. Or I'm going to die."

John smirked, snapping the batteries into place with promising clicks. "You won't die, Sherlock. People don't die from not having an orgasm. You should just be grateful I've relented."

"Don't tease me any more...Please. I can't...stand it...let me come, or kill me..." The next words were uttered in a strangled whisper. "Do you know what it's like...not to come for eight hours?" There was a slight, bitter pause. "Course not. You can get off...whenever you like." Sherlock winced at another violent and deafening peal of thunder just as the clouds burst open and rain began drenching London in an absolute fury of a downpour.

John shifted onto his knees, toy clutched in his hand, chest suddenly tight in sympathy for his suffering love. He didn't regret teasing Sherlock. He'd had a point which had needed proving. He'd done it, though. The point had been made. John had let Sherlock know he was angry and John felt, biting his lips as he gazed wickedly at Sherlock's long-denied cock, he'd punished his love enough.

For tonight, at least.

The doctor pushed the button on the toy curiously, surprised at the intensity of the vibration which assaulted his palm and fingers. Pressing the button twice more, he fought not to giggle as the rubber shaft experienced the three speeds it was designed for. It was practically jumping in his hand, tickling him almost to the point of numbness, as he pressed the single button once more and it stilled. He grinned at his wrecked and trembling detective.

"How often do you use this? And…" John paused to clear his throat and his distracted thoughts, highly aroused and wishing he could get hard again. "…do you…always use it in bed?" John couldn't help his imagination furnishing him with delicious, vibrant pictures of Sherlock fucking himself all over the flat when desperation seized him.

Sherlock's eyes trained hopefully on the toy in John's hand. "I've used it...fairly often. Not a lot. Not…not lately." He confessed, wincing in vague embarrassment. "More so before we started dating and having sex. I've sometimes…I used to go upstairs and…and use it in your bed. While you were at work. I imagined you were there with me. That….that it was you and not...not the toy." Sherlock remembered those horrible, bleak days, when he'd thought he didn't stand a chance with John, when the simplest brush of John's hand against Sherlock's body made his breath catch and arousal surge hotly. "After we started sleeping together I didn't need it... You satisfy me sexually- you know you do..."

"I would certainly hope so," John murmured, before gritting his teeth in anticipation, pushing apart Sherlock's strong thighs, and nudging the toys' considerable tip against Sherlock's entrance repeatedly, not yet allowing it to penetrate him. He did it, not out of a desire to vindictively tease, but out of a pure, animalistic desire to watch his partner truly border on absolute loss of control. He was almost there. He just needed a little more…

Sherlock sucked in an eager breath at the first, slightly cold brush of the toy against his dilated entrance. He tensed against his restraints, watching John with desperate hope written on his face. His mind was spinning. Chaotic. He wondered if John would mercilessly tease him more. If he would make Sherlock beg for the toy. Would John slowly slide it in, let Sherlock feel every inch as it entered his body- or shove it home immediately, let Sherlock stretch to accommodate it? John had been so gloriously unpredictable this evening. Sherlock honestly couldn't work out what would happen next and the possibilities had him panting in desire.

John observed the minute twitching of Sherlock's lips, the further dilation of his beautiful grey-green eyes. Nipping on his bottom lip, John halted the movement of the toy, his inhales choked by lust.

A ferocious and viciously loud burst of thunder stunned them for a second, and John consciously increased the volume of his voice over the storm inundating London.

"What do you want Sherlock? What do you need? I want to hear it...every...single...detail."

_Oh, god_. Sherlock closed his eyes, fidgeting on the bed. He'd never been good with dirty talk- that was more John's area of expertise- but if that's what it took to finally grant him relief…

"I...I need it. The…the toy. Please, John...put it in my...my a-arse and...and turn it on. Fuck me with it. Please- _let me come_." He whined the last few words, writhing, eyes begging.

Those few words almost did John in.

He felt the frustratingly redundant throb of arousal between his own legs, his cock too spent to get hard again so soon, and groaned. "Sherlock, I want to be inside you," he admitted deliriously, before depressing the button on the toy and rubbing it shakily over Sherlock's tumescent shaft.

"Then fuck me." Sherlock whined, sobbing at the further torment to his cock. "Just _please...please_... John..."

John, moving quickly, promptly thrust the thick toy into Sherlock in one go, gasping in pleasure at the detective's resultant shameless shudder and deep yelp of relief. John placed his right hand heavily on Sherlock's lean, pale hip, before fumbling with the vibrator's button for half a second. He turned it up, flicking through to the top speed.

Sherlock _screamed_.

Everything else fell away and Sherlock's entire world narrowed to the point of contact between his body and the toy. It was vibrating harshly, perilously close to where he needed it to be…_close_…but not quite…

Sherlock ground his arse down on the bed and jerked, crying out as if he'd been shot as the toy twisted inside him, vibrating directly against his prostate. He kept up his inelegant grind, rolling his hips, distantly aware of John watching, amused, but he was desperate, knowing he needed to get off and willing to do anything to get there.

He was oversensitive, both inside and out, and Sherlock gasped helplessly, overwhelmed tears forming beneath his eyelids and slipping, unheeded, down his cheeks as he neared his long-sought after and repeatedly denied orgasm.

"Yes...yes, _yes_, Sherlock, come on, I've got you, you need it...you _need_ it..." John struggled to hold down his partner's powerfully bucking hips, afraid he'd hurt himself if he gained too much leverage as he fucked himself on the large toy. "Come on. Come all over me," he ordered breathlessly.

Sherlock cried out as the pressure inside him built...and built...and built...and…

"_Ah_!" Sherlock suddenly went entirely still, body taut, muscles corded and trembling, mouth open in a soundless cry-

And then he was coming- shouting at the top of his lungs - thick spurts of come erupting from his cock to land on his chest, his face, even making it as far as his hair before the pressure eased, his cock still twitching wildly as pulses of come flooded out.

"Oh...oh, fuck, fuck _fuck_," John muttered senselessly, torn between watching Sherlock bite his lip so viciously that he drew a few beads of blood and gazing at the mind-blowing sight of Sherlock still riding out the aftershocks of a ferocious orgasm, threatening to dislocate his arms as he writhed violently in his restraints, and quite literally dripping with sweat, his black curls now a completely soaked, wild mess upon a forehead deeply crinkled with the effort of ultimate pleasure.

Sherlock gasped in relief with each protracted, bone-deep contraction of his orgasm. It seemed to go on and on and on deliciously, aided by the toy which was still vibrating powerfully in his arse. He tried to savour the feeling of release and luxuriate in his hard-won orgasm, but the vibrations became too much and Sherlock twisted, writhing against the bed in a futile effort to get away from the sensation.

"Ah..._AH_! J- John_- T-turn it oo-off!"_ Sherlock moaned, voice high-pitched as the toy rode mercilessly against his now highly-sensitive prostate.

John ran his tongue over his teeth as he fiendishly gave a few hard thrusts with the live toy against the brunette's prostate, feeling a vicious thrill as Sherlock emitted a series of high-pitched, inhuman noises, his succulent cupid's-bow decorated with a hot bead of exhausted perspiration.

The attack against his prostate provoked renewed interest from Sherlock's cock, which had never gone completely soft. As John thrust ruthlessly against his prostate again and again, Sherlock's cock started- to his dismay- to harden again.

John was delighted, eyeing Sherlock's inadvertent, but wonderfully tempting post-orgasmic state. He nudged the toy a little deeper into his loose and languid detective. "Sherlock, do you want more?" He asked in what amounted to a shuddery gasp.

"I- I don't know." Sherlock replied shakily, feeling as if the vibrations from the toy were directly linked to his vocal chords. Already, he could feel his body being forced to start the arduous climb to orgasm, sharper this time, and more acute, but still pleasurable in an entirely overwhelming way. "I...I..._oh._ I didn't think….Can I? _John_?"

John smiled down at Sherlock. "I think you've still got one more in you, don't you, love? Think you can stand another?"

Sherlock whined, tossing his head to the side, rolling his hips against the vibrations, grimacing when the toy didn't slickly slide into his arse, there was too much friction- but he needed more-

John, gratified by the telling fact that Sherlock chose not to talk -the detective would outlive God trying to have the last word- caught the pained grimace and slid the toy gently from Sherlock's body, smiling in sympathy at the appalled noise of protest Sherlock made.

"Sherlock," he expressed quietly, "I love you. Don't worry. I'll finish you off."

Sherlock's body had immediately slumped against the bed when the toy was removed but his cock, blood red and swollen, still twitched between his legs with every beat of his heart. He whined quietly at the feeling of still being aroused, of yet another orgasm curled tightly in his abdomen, demanding to be released. He hadn't known it was possible to get aroused so soon after having an orgasm, hadn't known his body was capable of it, and it both thrilled and terrified him. He trusted John to make it better, though.

He sucked in a sticky, laboured breath and distractedly blinked sweat and lingering tears from his pale eyes, gritting his teeth in anxious anticipation as John drizzled more lube onto the toy and rubbed it around the shaft with delicious intent.

John shifted back on his knees and easily slipped the vibrator back Into Sherlock's hole, shivering at how easy he had taken it, before flipping it back on and leaning forward to take Sherlock's cock in his mouth.

The violent noise the detective emitted was unearthly, deafening and almost disturbingly uncharacteristic. John had to literally force his body weight onto Sherlock's hips to attempt to keep him still, though he had a hard job, as Sherlock jerked and jumped and thrusted wildly. John managed to glance up at Sherlock's face, and groaned raggedly around his cock at the sight of his partner so utterly, utterly wrecked - writhing, soaked, yelling indiscriminately and flushed a stunning, debauched pink.

He had never seen Sherlock look more gorgeous.

Between the sweet, heavenly suction of John's mouth and the ruthless vibrations of the toy, it didn't take Sherlock long to come again. He'd teased himself all afternoon to the point of madness, and then John had heartlessly edged him until he'd gone incoherent. Sherlock's second orgasm rose up, sharp and frighteningly stunning. He panted helplessly, half afraid of what would happen when this orgasm, tingling at the base of his spine with erotic promise, crested.

"Sherlock...is it happening?" John asked his partner deliriously after briefly pausing his oral ministrations, his dark blue eyes dilated, teeth gnawing on his bottom lip in joyful anticipation.

_"Y-yes...yes-oh_!" Sherlock gasped. He trembled, overwhelmed tears streaking down his face, mouth contorting as pleasure streaked through his body. "_OH- John- John! I-"_

Sherlock shouted as his orgasm suddenly hit, body jerking and bucking beyond his control. He sobbed weakly as his cock twitched, come pulsing out in a feeble trickle to spatter against his stomach.

John grunted with a perverse satisfaction, sucking hard just under the tip of Sherlock's shaft and pushing the detective's toy just a few more tempting centimetres inside with a jolt of effort, doing his best to control the bucking brunette whose violent howls were actually hurting his eardrums with the remarkable decibels they reached.

"John, stop, _please please please_ stop- _stop_! I can't...not...anymore." Sherlock thrashed, begging for all he was worth as the pleasure morphed into pain, afraid John would force him to orgasm again. Shaking with the lingering aftershocks of his orgasm, Sherlock never wanted to come again.

John immediately pulled away, turned off the toy and gently removed it (to the shuddery, breathless gasp of his partner), and set it aside. He leaned up to untie Sherlock from the bonds he'd ensnared him with, gently lowering his arms to the bed, wincing when Sherlock moaned in pain at the change in position.

"Sherlock...sweetheart, are you alright?" John asked worriedly, firmly rubbing Sherlock's aching shoulders and biceps, hoping he hadn't been too rough with his love. He'd thought Sherlock had been enjoying it, but maybe he shouldn't have left him tied up so long-

"Stop…thinking…S'annoying." Sherlock mumbled, cracking open an eye to stare up at John. His lips quirked up in a half-smile and John huffed, leaning down and giving Sherlock a few reassuring kisses on his slightly bloodied lips, his flushed cheeks, somewhat concerned by the fierce heat Sherlock's reddened skin was giving off.

"Are you alright, though?"

Sherlock nodded, straining up into John's kiss and John indulged him, slanting their lips together, smiling at Sherlock' contented sigh. He stretched himself out along Sherlock's side, tenderly kissing his beautiful, infuriating, genius, bastard, man-child.

But, John reflected as Sherlock's kisses grew weaker and weaker as the taller man slipped into an exhausted sleep, he was _John's_ beautiful, infuriating, genius, bastard, man-child.

And he wasn't ever letting him go.


	6. Chapter 6

**A big, hearfelt thank you to our followers and reviewers! You guys are the best! There will most likely be one more chapter after this one to round it out.**

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John gently and reluctantly shook his dozing detective until the sweat-drenched, come-covered, and slightly bloodied brunette stirred dazedly. Sherlock groaned and, grabbing onto John's arms to keep him from moving away, attempted to burrow his head further into John's chest.

"Let me clean you up first, sweetheart," John murmured soothingly, raising his voice enough to be heard over the furious rainfall battering the bedroom window.

Sherlock, swallowing with a grimace, took a few wheezy, fortifying breaths and decided he couldn't find the effort to form complete sentences. Not yet. He fumbled one shaking hand to John's neglected phone beside them and typed in a message, at a much slower pace than his usual super-speed. When he was done, he held the now-damp screen up for John to read the unusually inelegant message.

_I dont know if that was horrible or best thing ever_

John laughed, pressing another kiss to Sherlock's sweaty temple before rolling off the bed and getting to his feet. "I'm sure you'll let me know eventually, love. Think you can manage enough to get in the shower with me?"

Sherlock blinked dizzily and swiped a quaking hand across his tear-soaked eyes, disrupting the pretty wet cobwebs of his eyelashes. He sat up in a wobbly fashion, groaning faintly at the complaining twinges of pain in his arms, thighs, calves and abdomen. He was sore all over, muscles he rarely used throbbing in protest at his sudden change in position, and the idea of actually _standing_ and _walking_ to the shower seemed impossible.

He wished he could. A shower sounded fantastic He felt decidedly sticky and _gross_. Sherlock could smell his own sweat mixed with the bland but detectable scent of lube and the musky tones of semen. He realized, with a blow to his vanity, that he probably looked even worse than he felt. There was, however, no way his muscles would hold him up long enough to get clean, much less make it the few steps to the loo.

Words still failing him, Sherlock petulantly shook his head.

"Ok. That's fine." John's voice was brisk and matter-of-fact, his taking-care-of-people voice, and Sherlock let himself relax at the familiar sound and slump back onto the bed, making a disgusted face as the damp, wet sheets clung to his back and legs.

"Sherlock...I'm going to change the bed before we sleep. There are enough body fluids on there to fill a pint glass. Try and take the sheets off, okay? I'll be back in a sec."

John left the still fuzzy-visioned detective splayed like a starfish on the bed in order to stroll to the bathroom, quickly clean himself up, and dampen a few flannels for Sherlock.

After John had left, Sherlock lay without moving for a few seconds, blearily debating on whether or not he had the strength or the inclination to do as John had asked.

Finally, heaving the sigh of the greatly put-upon, Sherlock weakly reached up and grasped the top corner of the bottom sheet, giving a few half-hearted tugs in an attempt to dislodge it where it was firmly tucked beneath the mattress. His shoulder gave a painful spasm of protest at the movement and Sherlock winced, hissing and going lax against the bed. He'd definitely be sore tomorrow and the idea, instead of making him annoyed, filled Sherlock with quiet delight.

He lost himself for a few moments, still grasping the sheet, imagining all the different things he could do the next day to make his shoulders hurt and remind him, over and over, of all the debauched things he and John had done.

It was a pleasant endeavour.

Sherlock had got nothing done by the time John returned, and was just dreamily reclining on the bed. With endorphin-pumped delight, he twisted his still-flushed face to his doctor, cleared his hoarse, overworked throat, and offered his most endearing, grey-green puppy eyes.

"...Need help," he croaked and John shook his head, smiling fondly at his overgrown child, knowing he was completely to blame for Sherlock's blissful lethargy and feeling incredibly smug about it.

"All right. I'll do it." He said, putting down the soaked flannels on the night table. "Roll that way. No- _that way_, Sherlock. Away from me."

John raked an approving eye down Sherlock's pale back and arse when the detective rolled away from him, biting his lip to keep from sighing at the sight. He efficiently jerked the sheet from its confines and moved to the other side. "Ok. Now the other way."

John managed to manoeuvre the sheet from underneath Sherlock's slack body with some artful tugging, as well as remove the duvet from the bed, but he had no chance of redressing the mattress with a large, wet, naked man recuperating upon it.

"Right, come on," he announced in a no-nonsense fashion, scooping his arms under Sherlock and, bracing them under Sherlock's considerable weight, managed to lift him with a small grunt and take a few steps, depositing the squirming brunette on the rug beside the bed.

Panting only slightly, John tossed Sherlock one of the flannels, the cloth smacking wetly onto his pale skin. Sherlock, his eyes closed, didn't even flinch.

"I'm sure you can manage that much," John grinned, nodded pointedly toward the considerable, sticky, white scabs of dried semen on Sherlock's body.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and glanced down, wrinkling his nose at the mess and John laughed, turning back to the bed to deal with the sheet situation.

"There's so...much of it." Sherlock said in an awed voice and John turned back to find his overgrown child running his fingers inquiringly over the dried and still drying patches of come covering his body.

"_Clean_, Sherlock, don't play." John instructed firmly, giving Sherlock a stern look, watching as Sherlock obediently swabbed the hot, wet flannel over himself, curiously and slightly shakily raising his other hand to his wilted black curls, where his slim fingers encountered a few errant globs of semen. Sherlock grimaced.

"John." He reprimanded feebly, disgusted with the way the fluid had matted his hair together, and John had to turn away to hide his grin.

"That wasn't all me, love." He said, finishing up with the bed and watching as Sherlock unsuccessfully attempted to scrub semen out of his hair with a flannel.

"I refuse to believe my own ejaculate reached my hair." Sherlock said acerbically, then gave John an interested look. "Did it?"

John grinned clownishly, this time openly, and turned to Sherlock and opened his mouth to speak but another deafening peal of thunder interrupted him. Once it had faded into the charcoal, gloomy sky, he licked his lips and tried again.

"Bit of a blur, is it? Yes, Sherlock, to be absolutely frank, you came all over yourself. Hair included. I was a bit impressed."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Only a bit?"

The duvet that was damp and stained, crumpled in an ungainly heap on the floor, and John decided he couldn't be bothered to change it. Not tonight. Instead, he stretched to reach the top of the wardrobe where a thick, fluffy, scarlet blanket which Mrs. Hudson had given them last Christmas resided. He chucked it onto the bed unceremoniously and, chucking himself right after it, promptly snuggled beneath it with a happy sigh.

"You've forgot about me." Sherlock said childishly from his position on the floor. "After being so cruelly and thoroughly ravaged by my doctor, he heartlessly abandons me in my hour of need." He opined, tossing the now disgusting flannel across the room without a care as to where it landed. John could pick it up later.

Sherlock suddenly jolted slightly, his overly- petulant pout having alerted him to the self-inflicted bite wound on his plump lower lip. Easing himself into a sitting position with an exaggerated groan, he pawed his knuckles across his mouth to find them faintly daubed with half-dried, flaking blood.

From his position on the floor, he glared at John indignantly.

"You did that to yourself too, Sherlock. I've already looked at it and it's not bad. It'll just be a bit tender for a few days. Or it will be if you _stop poking it_! Come on." He drew back the blanket enticingly. "Up you get."

Sherlock emitted a highly-agonized moan and crawled on hands and knees to the side of bed, where he then appeared to lose all remaining energy and just knelt beside it, faffing about and groping at the mattress vaguely.

"Joooohn," he drawled pathetically, laying his head on the mattress and whimpering pitifully. "Joooohn."

John huffed, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's dramatics. If this had been any other night, he would have rolled over and let Sherlock drag his own drama queen arse into the bed. But John was feeling a bit bad about his rough treatment of his detective earlier, no matter how much they'd both enjoyed it, and, remembering that Sherlock's shoulders were still sore and probably growing sorer by the minute, John abandoned his warm cocoon with a sigh and helped the gelatinous goo of consulting detective onto the bed.

Once they were both prone on the bed, said amorphous detective immediately wrapped every extremity around his doctor, resulting in a faintly-disgruntled noise from the smaller man.

"John...feel good," Sherlock murmured vaguely, sighing. "Rub me."

John managed to twitch the blanket over their tightly conjoined bodies and then obligingly set up a soothing stroking of Sherlock's back, smoothing his palm down the warm skin, tracing Sherlock's spine, able to count each vertebrae beneath his fingertips.

Sherlock snuggled closer to John, sealing their bodies warmly together, and sighed contentedly. He was tired. Exhausted. He felt that, for once, he could immediately drift off to sleep. Except…

Sherlock frowned, the idea which had been bothering him all day rearing its ugly head again and driving sleep far away. He silently debated with himself for a few minutes, wondering whether or not he should leave it until the morning.

He decided he couldn't.

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask his question...but promptly shut it, losing his nerve.

A few minutes later, as John's steady hands moved up to massage his slightly aching shoulders, Sherlock once again opened his mouth...then closed it, reticent to ask. Wary of the answer he would receive.

"I'm not an idiot either, you know," John said quietly, pressing knowledgeable fingers and thumb into Sherlock's scapulae. He gave his boyfriend a lingering peck on the nose. "Just say it. Whatever it is you're wanting to say."

"Are you embarrassed of me?" Sherlock suddenly blurted and John's hands stilled against his skin. "I mean…are you ashamed of being with me? Is that why you didn't tell your co - workers about us? I- I understand if you are." He hurried to say, heart thrumming in fear, when John drew in a breath to answer. "I know I'm not...not the usual standard of beauty you date. I've mentally compiled and compared the level of physical attractiveness of the women you generally date and you average, based on societal standards of beauty, at least an eight. Sometimes a seven. I would rate myself a six on a good day- perhaps slightly more when I wear those royal blue pants you so favour. So I understand if I'm not… Well. All that fantastic. And I know I'm impossible to get along with. And I have strange proclivities which you're very good about dealing with... I...I understand it, John, I just…wanted to ask." Sherlock mumbled, voice strained, trying not to sound as hurt and vulnerable as he'd felt earlier when he'd realized that John had kept their relationship hidden.

"Oh...Sherlock," John whispered, his own heart palpitating painfully in reaction to his lover's obvious, repressed distress. He swallowed thickly and then seized Sherlock's beautiful, full lips in a hard, breathless kiss, clutching his dense, damp curls fiercely and tugging possessively, a tiny, burning sigh permeating Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock gratefully let himself be kissed, melting into the embrace and relishing the contact of John's lips on his own, which he'd had precious little of that evening. When John finally pulled away, Sherlock rushed to fill the silence.

"I understand if you don't want people knowing about us. You already receive enough grief and jabs and attempts at humour just being my friend- how much worse would it be if everyone found out we were together. I understand why you haven't told anyone. It…it makes sense." The idea of John not wanting to tell anyone they were together hurt…but Sherlock shoved it away. It didn't matter if no one else knew, he sternly told himself, just as long as he had John. Just as long as he got to _keep_ John...He could withstand the rest.

"Sherlock, you are a lunatic," John uttered, heartfelt, into the delicious, damp heat between their barely-touching lips. "I love you more than anything. And I'm so proud of you. I was...I was out of order. Keeping it a secret. I'm sorry." He squeezed Sherlock, kissing him again. "I'm not embarrassed, though. I was never embarrassed. In case you missed it earlier, most of my co-workers are homophobic arseholes. I didn't want to announce it to them because I knew what their reaction would be. 'Course, you took care of _that_ for me." John growled playfully, pinching Sherlock's arse. The detective let out an entirely unbecoming giggle at the sharp pinch and John huffed a small, impromptu laugh, rubbing the place he'd pinched, soothing the sting- any reason to grab Sherlock's arse. "Glad I won't have to deal with that lot any more, to be honest." He confessed. "Not that I'm condoning what you did today but…it worked out. In the end. And…we _should_ tell everyone else. That we're together. It's been overdue for a while now."

Sherlock smiled against John's neck, pleasure bubbling up in his stomach and constricting his chest. He bit his lip to keep from grinning- then winced and promptly let go of the tender skin when it gave a stab of pain.

"Takes care of another one of my problems- I get to stake a public claim on you. In actual fact, I'm always rather terrified of someone stealing you away from me."

Sherlock snorted, derisive. "Who'd want to steal me away? You're the only one who ever wanted to put up with me."

John continued his slow, deep, sensuous massage of Sherlock's supple back, fingering his neck with purpose, before smoothing down Sherlock's spine to his backside, which he squeezed playfully, rewarded with a strangled yelp. "Let's be brutally honest with each other right now, Sherlock. I would move heaven and earth in order to keep you with me. And I think you have full cognisance of how bloody important you are to me. As well as how incredibly gorgeous and fucking desirable you are," John winked, before smooching Sherlock softly.

Sherlock preened under the praise, squirming a bit and smiling, allowing himself to bask in John's compliments for a while before sobering. He licked his lips and inhaled deeply before making his other pronouncement.

"...John...I don't want you to talk about...about the other people. Your…your _conquests_. Any more. It...upsets me."

John felt another stab of sadness as he realized how much he'd hurt the person he loved most with his careless comments. "I only said that earlier to make you jealous, Sherl. I didn't mean it... I don't want anyone else but you. You know that, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded, inhaling shakily. "I know that but…Imagination is a burden. I can delete most of the details, but some fragments remain," He mumbled, frowning and snuggling even closer to his doctor so not a centimetre separated them. "I don't want you to mention them and I don't want to have to think about them again. Ever."

"I'll never mention them- any of it- again." John vowed, giving Sherlock a reassuring squeeze and they relaxed into silence, the steady downpour of rain outside a perfect lullaby calling them to sleep after such strenuous activity.

John's eyes had started to droop when Sherlock suddenly piped up again.

"And if you require sexual release of any kind I want to be the one to provide it."

John laughed, rummaging one languid hand through Sherlock's beautiful curls. "Sometimes I'll need to get off by myself, sweetheart."

Sherlock sniffed. "I would be better and more adept at pleasing you."

"It's not like you have room to talk." John reminded him, lifting his head to see where the vibrator had got to.

"I have a physiological problem," Sherlock murmured in his own defence.

"Call it what you want," John teased, "but it's healthy to get yourself off. Without another person there. Doesn't mean I don't still want you or anything."

"...Do you think about me when you do it?" Sherlock asked in a husky baritone whisper, before kissing John's scarred shoulder lovingly.

John swallowed heavily, feeling a distant pulse of arousal which he suppressed. Now wasn't the time- they were both knackered. "Yeah. Of course…. Do you think of me when you use that gigantic beast?"

Sherlock nipped his bottom lip carefully, his eyes glittering dangerously up at John, and John was immediately worried. Sherlock chuckled naughtily and wriggled ever closer to his doctor in the hot gloom under the delightfully-stifling red blanket to whisper in his ear. "I have an even bigger one," he admitted in a fiendish whisper.

John was stunned, not sure what to even think of that new information, his mind already spiralling down a not-very-pleasant train of thought- when Sherlock giggled heartily.

"Just kidding."

John chuckled weakly, not very amused by Sherlock's antics. "If you'd had a toy bigger than that I'd have started getting an inferiority complex." He grumbled, loathe to admit he felt just the tiniest bit _lacking_ when compared to Sherlock's toy. Remembering its considerable girth and length, John amended that. Maybe more than just a tiny bit lacking.

But Jesus. He was only a simple man.

Sherlock immediately, despite his lethargic state, sensed John's discomfort and he became instantly alert. "John?" he asked, somewhat worriedly. "I _was_ just joking..."

John cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "Yeah I know. It's fine. It's all fine. Um...just...why did you choose one that was so…_large_?"

Sherlock flushed slightly, his long fingers playing over the skin of John's bicep distractedly. "...I'd...I had smaller ones before. I suppose I just...worked up to a...bigger one," he muttered very quietly, his pale eyes flicking away from John's dark gaze, still embarrassed talking about his sex toys with John. Maybe one day, Sherlock thought, John would want him to bring them all out of their hiding place in the back of the closet and together they'd- Sherlock had to inhale shakily at the idea- they'd use them. John would want a demonstration with a few of them…or he might be amenable to letting Sherlock use a few on _him_.

The idea was heady, arousing, and Sherlock carefully stored it away for a later day.

"Hmmm...I did love watching you take it." John murmured back, licking his lips at the memory. "Just so long as I...you know. So long as you're happy and pleased with. ..uh..._me_."

"Of course." Sherlock assured him. "Don't be utterly ridiculous, John. Why would I be asking for you all the time if you weren't satisfying me?"

"Why would you be gagging for it all the time, you mean?" John teased, just to watch Sherlock flush a darker shade of red.

Sherlock, ducking his head to hide his blush, extended a hand to John's and gave it a passionate squeeze, before intertwining their admittedly mis-matched fingers in the dim heat which enveloped them in their sweet, dark cocoon, in their bed in their flat in Central London.

John grinned and squeezed Sherlock's large hand back. He appeared to hesitate about something for a moment, his dark eyes thoughtful and distant. Licking his lips, he propped himself up a little and retrieved his phone, amazed that it still had one bar of battery life after its arduous day.

"Sherlock, I'm going to take a picture of us. Kiss me like you mean it," he chuckled, holding the outdated smartphone in a 'selife' position above their heads in the gloomy half-light of London dusk.

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes- a selfie, honestly, what were they, teenage girls?- but obligingly rose up and caught John's lips in a fervent kiss, distantly aware of the tinny clicking noise which signaled John was taking a picture.

John pulled back his phone and broke the kiss, a little abruptly Sherlock thought, slightly irked at the treatment, and he winced as John pushed the screen into his line of sight, his sleepy, pale eyes watering at the bright intrusion.

"What do you think?" John asked.

Sherlock blinked rapidly to clear his vision and peered at the screen. Then he smiled, a slow, satisfied smile which crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look, to John, ten years younger.

"_Oh_." Sherlock rumbled. "I like it. You can tell we're naked and in bed..." He trailed off, eyes raking over the picture again, committing it to memory.

John double-checked the photo himself, ensuring they hadn't overlooked any tell-tale..._bodily releases_ which may have been missed in the clean-up. Satisfied, he grinned. It was a surprisingly good photo - both of them visibly bare from torso up and looking more than a little bit shagged-out, but not explicitly so.

"I'll want that," Sherlock proclaimed sleepily, burrowing his face back into John's chest. "Make it...my mobile's...background..." He mumbled, already almost asleep before another idea struck. "John...what did you want the picture for?"

"Why not?" John replied airily, shrugging, casually setting aside his phone and distracting his detective with the scalp massage he knew made Sherlock melt.

Slowly, John felt Sherlock going boneless beside him, his breathing evening out and turning deep and languid. John smiled to himself as he finally allowed himself to drift off, hoping Sherlock would love what he was going to do.

* * *

Sherlock opened bleary eyes late the next morning, fumbling into semi-awareness in the cool, bright morning sunshine from the trippy series of dreams he had (sort-of) awoken from. John was kissing his cheekbone, murmuring comfortingly.

"I'm getting up. It's nearly eleven, Sherl, and I've got to pop to the shops, okay? Pick up a Jobs paper while I'm at it," he added without vindictiveness, grinning.

Sherlock scowled as he watched John saunter from the bedroom, displeased that he was already looking for another job. Sherlock had thought he would have the newly - unemployed John to himself for at _least_ two weeks before he had to worry about John finding another job. He liked John being there at the flat with him, humming under his breath, making Sherlock tea and toast, cursing at the telly, puttering around cleaning up Sherlock's messes, and shagging Sherlock any time the mood struck.

It was always so tedious- and boring- when John got a job and was gone most of the day.

Sherlock felt inexplicably drained, despite having many hours of sleep, and it wasn't until he rolled over and tried to sit up that the muscles of his upper arms and abdomen twinged in resistance, and the previous night's epic orgasms came back to him. He groaned in smug satisfaction and sat up, feeling a bit dizzy, and grinned in utter delight at the memory.

He stretched his arms over his head, wincing happily at the resultant pull and tug on his sore, abused muscles. It was a deep, glorious ache and Sherlock revelled in it for almost a full minute, twisting this way and that to make his muscles spasm and pang and smart. If he hadn't been already shagged out, he would have been incredibly aroused by it.

John returned to their bedroom some fifteen minutes later after his shower, ruffling his short hair, and rummaging through the wardrobe.

Sherlock, feeling as if his entire body were throbbing in pain, still snuggled under the wonderfully-cosy red blanket. He cleared his throat, his deep baritone sounding out lazily.

"I'm still in pain. It's delicious," he admitted with a beautiful crinkly grin.

John chuckled, well aware of Sherlock's penchant for a bit of lingering pain the morning after sex. More than once, John had caught Sherlock blatantly choosing a hard-bottomed chair to sit in and then spending his time there shifting and squirming about _on purpose_ just to make certain abused body parts twinge after John had had his way with them the previous night. It was harmless and John indulged Sherlock in it but he was always careful not to let things get too far.

"Enjoy it, Sherlock," John smirked, kneeling on the bed and giving the brunette a quick, but hard and wet kiss. He pulled back and got dressed with alacrity. Sherlock watched John's dressing gown fall and a devastatingly-naked John bend and flex to pull on his underwear, jeans, and the striped jumper that Sherlock would never admit he actually adored.

"I intend to." Sherlock sighed pleasurably, idly wondering if he could get John to fuck him later. He still felt sore and very sated but the idea held appeal- his tender muscles aching and pulling as John used him. "Must you go?" Sherlock asked, whining, hoping to get John to stay.

"I'll be gone half an hour. Tops. Anything you need? I would get you more batteries but I'm fairly sure you're well-stocked now," the smaller man winked.

Sherlock blushed and lowered his eyes. "I'm sure we are." He agreed letting John kiss him again and trying but failing to pull John into the bed with him.

"I'll be back soon, Sherlock." John chuckled, eluding the long, grasping hands of his love. "Try not to get in any trouble while I'm gone."

"Oh ye of little faith," Sherlock dryly replied, starting to feel more alert and confident that he could crawl out of bed without falling on his face. He licked his plump, sore lips, tonguing the bite on his lower lip to make it sting, and listened to John pick up his coat and wallet from the hall, and then leave.

With an indulgent, strained gasp, Sherlock managed to get up on shaky legs, shrug on John's discarded dressing gown, and wander out in the living room, yawning mightily.

His stomach rumbled and Sherlock, massaging it curiously, discovered that he actually felt hungry. He frowned, suddenly realizing John had left without first cooking something for him to eat.

"…How am I meant to sustain the energy for rampant sex with no food?" Sherlock mumbled to his absent lover, feeling entirely put-out and cranky- John was supposed to take care of him. He began slump - dragging himself toward the kitchen, intent on making tea- when he saw John's laptop sat in his armchair, out of its usual place. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Highly suspicious.

He made his way over to it and, with a put-upon sigh, he swept up John's laptop with his typical lack of remorse, opened the lid, and found that it was already logged in. His curiosity roused, Sherlock opened the minimised internet page, the only thing active on the desktop's toolbar.

John's blog immediately sprang into life and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Trust John to leave their bed and check his sodding blog when there were better things to be doing- such as cooking Sherlock breakfast. Sherlock felt he had earned it after last night and-

Sherlock blinked, stunned, his mind grinding to a halt as he took in John's most recent blog post.

His eyes were immediately riveted by the simple photo at the top and only after several long seconds did Sherlock glance down at the accompanying message.

_"For Sherlock, who will for ever and always be the most spectacular and most important person in my life. :) "_

Sherlock sat down as his legs gave out in shock, thankful John's armchair was behind him otherwise he would have gone down to the floor. He stared at the photo and accompanying message, mind jammed and trying...somehow...to work through the situation.

It didn't seem possible, what John had done. And yet…there was the proof, incontrovertible, in front of his very eyes.

By the time Sherlock had managed to wrap his head around the relative enormity of what John had done, thirty-three minutes had passed, and he was alerted by the sound of John's key in the flat's front door, and footsteps on the dusty stairs.

He snapped the laptop shut and raced for the door, intercepting John just as he walked through, arms full of bags, face smiling.

"Hey. I see you didn't burn down the _mmf_-"

Sherlock mashed his lips to John's, kissing him roughly and desperately, backing him up until John's back hit the wall, vaguely aware of the carrier bags dropping soundly to the floor, uncaring when there was a faint clink of glass breaking and a wet sound of something leaking within the plastic bag by John's right foot.

John, unaware of the carnage at his feet, grinned into the kiss, kissing Sherlock back to within an inch of his life, tugging at his dark, glossy curls selfishly.

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering, gasping breath and drew away just far enough that John could see his eyes which were huge and glassy.

"Why...why did you..."Sherlock stuttered, at a loss for words. "I saw...your blog and the...our picture…"

"I thought you might have done," John chuckled, grinning his clownish, infectious grin. "I wanted you to know I'm proud of you. Proud to be with you. I wanted everyone to know."

John's words repeated back to Sherlock on a loop, running through his head and Sherlock felt his bottom lip wobbling alarmingly, his eyes starting to smart, and he desperately tried to get control of his emotions before he embarrassed himself.

John's instincts, honed over many months of dealing with his love, told him exactly what was happening and he saved Sherlock from embarrassment by hugging him tightly, letting Sherlock hide his face in John's shoulder, and playfully groping Sherlock's backside, making light of the situation.

"Can't wait till Anderson sees it," he muttered into Sherlock's ear, huffing with laughter.

Sherlock, leaning against John, made himself force a rather strangled sounding laugh, sniffing a bit but managing to shore himself up under John's playful banter. When he felt he'd got himself under control, he pulled away and gave John his best arrogant look.

"You left without cooking me breakfast, John. You may go ahead and do that while I shower. I want scrambled eggs and toast. Oh. And tea."

John gave Sherlock a long, gimlet Look before taking a deep breath. His next words were tinged by an audible, restrained smile.

"Remind me why I love you again?"

"Because I'm a spectacular, important genius." Sherlock said airily. "And a damn good shag. You'll want to clean that mess up as well." He gestured at their feet where the sodden and broken remnants of John's shopping lay. Sherlock gave John a cheeky grin before darting down the hall and slamming the door to the loo before Captain Watson got him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Oops- turns out I lied last time: we got distracted with writing the smut so there will be one more chapter after this one :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

A week after Sherlock's mind-shattering double orgasm (the memory of which he had deliberately and carefully stored in a specific chamber of his mind palace that was decorated in a fleshy, suggestive pink and had a cheeky 'Adults Only' sign on the door) the detective flinched awake, suddenly and on instinct, at 6am on the dot. The sky outside, peeked at through the thick but askew bedroom curtains, was a very pale, delicate misty grey.

Sherlock smiled and stretched, unaccountably happy and rather unnerved by the feeling. He was still getting used to the sensation of being _happy_, actually happy, and was worried that when something finally happened to take it away he'd have a hard time adjusting. The thought made him feel sad, hollow, and he instinctively turned to where his John- the reason he was so happy- lay sleeping, his lined face smoothed out in blissful unawareness.

Shooing away his threateningly-negative ponderings, Sherlock licked his lips and shuffled a little closer to his doctor, nuzzling him with his nose like an affectionate cat. "John," he whispered, smiling with inordinate pleasure when John's closed eyes flickered in unconscious recognition.

"John." He whispered again, thrilled when John's mouth turned up into a sleepy smile at the sound of Sherlock's voice...but remained steadfastly, annoyingly asleep.

Sherlock tried poking him.

"_John_!"

John winced vaguely and groaned, hugged his pillow to his head and let out an almighty, sleepy sigh before settling languorously into the mattress.

Sherlock, exasperated, started tapping his fingers insistently on his partner's cheek, drumming out an impatient rhythm, and repeating his name at increasingly loud volumes.

"John. John. _Joooohn_. JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn. _JOHN_!" at the last, Sherlock roughly shook John's shoulder and beamed innocently when eyes filled with sleepy fury glared at him. "Oh good. You're awake."

John cleared his throat and rubbed his dark blue eyes which were still gummed from sleep, peering up at his lover. "Sherlock, what the fuck...it's still early." He propped himself up and glanced at the bedside clock before sinking back onto the mattress with a groan. "…I know you're excited, but we live less than twenty minutes away…and it doesn't even _open_ for four hours."

"I thought we should go ahead and get ready." Sherlock replied, rising onto his knees and bouncing on the bed beside John excitedly. "I wanted to make sure we wouldn't miss it. You know you sometimes tend to oversleep and of course you'll insist on having breakfast and then you'll want to _sit_ and stare blankly into space while you drink your tea and if we don't get up now we'll miss it."

"We're not going to miss it, Sherlock...Jesus, it's way too early." John muttered, scrubbing his short hair and sitting up reluctantly, Sherlock's obvious enthusiasm propelling him into action.

"We _can't_ miss it, John. We can't. We _have_ to be there. Gunther von Hagens in London." Sherlock babbled, taking a deep, shaking breath, his eyes sparkling bright and passionate. "You know, he and he alone invented the technique of plastination- on whole bodies. _Human bodies_, John. I've often wanted to experiment with his technique myself- on small animals first, of course, before I attempt anything larger. I'm sure Molly would be able to-"

"No." John interrupted, giving him a stern look. "No- to all of that, Sherlock."

"Hmmf." Sherlock sniffed, ignoring John's implicit threat and adding his own implicit 'just try and stop me'. "Hurry, John. If we start now we should have time to get to the museum before it opens. One of the security guards there owes me a favour- helped rescue his mother from an internet scam- and if he's on duty today-"

"You forgot something, Sherl," John murmured, nibbling on his bottom lip as he watched his pale, beautiful, and wonderfully nude detective drag himself inelegantly out of the bed.

"What?" Sherlock paused, glancing back at John who was sprawled darkly against the pillows, the sheets riding provocatively low on his hips.

"You forgot…that when you wake me for no legitimate reason at a godforsaken hour in the morning, you owe me an orgasm."

"_Oh_." Sherlock breathed, his heart skipping a beat and the beginnings of desire starting to pool low in his gut. He moved back to the bed and knelt beside his grinning lover, his hands hovering over the sheet, watching the enticing flex of John's cock through the fabric…before he drew away, frowning.

"Are you sure we have time for this?"

"I think four hours should be sufficient to work me to the necessary peak of sexual arousal," John said dryly, before grinning his adorable, clownish grin.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, shooting John a mischievous look as he peeled the sheet away, revealing John in all his naked glory. It was a cliché Sherlock had always hated but, his eyes roving over John's body, it was how Sherlock genuinely felt. John was _glorious_ when he was nude. It made Sherlock hate John's ugly jumpers even more, that they covered up such beauty.

"Like what you see?" John asked playfully, chuckling. "I, um..." He cleared his throat, voice betraying his sudden trepidation. "I know it's been a while, but...would you...you know? I've kind of...missed it..."

Sherlock blinked at John, trying to work out what he meant.

'You know?'

Something John had missed?

Sherlock frowned- then suddenly realized what it was he was being asked to do. He sucked in a sharp breath, feeling himself go from semi-interested to almost rock hard in seconds.

"Oh…oh, _yes_. I...yes. Yes. If - if that's what you...what you want. I mean, I can...I can certainly oblige..."

John himself had woken up hard, but he was almost done in by Sherlock's awkward words - as was often the case before they made love, the brunette articulated a blend of well-spoken pronouncements and a shaky, aroused wordlessness. John loved reducing his usually loquacious genius to that.

"Mm...well, thanks for _obliging_ me, Sherlock. I know how much you hate doing it- good on you to _oblige_ me with this." John teased before Sherlock surged forward, seizing John's lips in a vicious kiss, his long, spidery hands scooting greedily over John's hips and waist, squeezing warningly.

"God, John- I always _love_ taking you," Sherlock admitted abruptly, pulling back for a brief, breathless second. "I won't hold back."

"Good. Don't." John said, reaching over to the bedside table and extracting the lube, handing it to Sherlock and biting his lip to keep from smiling at the way the taller man's hands shook slightly as he took it from him. Nervousness or arousal? John knew it was both. Sherlock taking John was rare- it was usually the other way round- and it was new and fascinating enough that Sherlock was still hesitant about it. "Get me ready." John said, unconcerned, lying back and propping his hands behind his head.

Sherlock's striking features betrayed an honest, extreme anxiety before he consciously schooled them into a visage of apparent confidence. A confidence he didn't feel- not at all- and he couldn't hide the thick swallow of anticipation he experienced as he spread John's legs. The sight was undeniably suggestive and erotic, and Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning down and suckling gently on the soft skin of John's inner thighs. John made a noise of contentment, throwing his head back and closing his own eyes, relishing the sucking kisses as they got progressively higher. His cock twitched as he heard the eloquent click of a cap being opened and the soft, obscene sound of lube being squirted into a palm.

Sherlock warmed the cool liquid before dousing his long, clever fingers in it and, licking his lips hungrily, he tenuously stroked over John's entrance, teasing the ring of resistant muscle and using his left hand to take hold of John's shaft, not stroking it, just gripping reassuringly, making sure John's erection didn't flag.

Sherlock remembered the first time he'd done this. How nervous he'd been. How worried he'd do something wrong, go too fast, and accidentally hurt John. He was still worried, not having done it enough to gain any confidence, and barely inserted his finger in to the first knuckle before gently moving it in and out, careful to go no further.

He nearly choked when John's hand unpredictably grabbed his own and forced his long finger deep inside, twisting the axis of Sherlock's wrist so that his fingertip hit John's prostate with almost disturbing accuracy.

"Fuck..._yes_," John moaned, throwing his head back and Sherlock nearly whimpered as John, keeping his tight grip on Sherlock's wrist, began moving Sherlock's finger in and out at a quick pace, his breathing going ragged. "More. Another, Sherlock." John commanded and Sherlock, who had been dazedly watching John yanking on his slim wrist, using Sherlock to smash (quite brutally, it appeared) into his own prostate, slowly came to his senses and obediently extended another finger, smoothly inserting in alongside the other.

Sherlock shivered at the pleasured, agonized moan John let forth as he did, and he eagerly took over fucking his fingers into his doctor, keenly watching for any reaction of pain in John's body. All he saw, though, as John urgently, breathlessly instructed him to insert another finger, was pure arousal. John's nipples were pebbled, hard, his skin covered in goose bumps, muscles jumping and shivering under skin which was starting to take on a slight sheen of sweat. And his cock, bobbing between them with the urgent movements of Sherlock's fingers as they drove into John's body, was rock hard, fluid beginning to pool at the tip.

"John," Sherlock managed to utter, swallowing again, hypnotised by the sight of his long fingers disappearing into his partner at a rapid, dizzying speed, and, according to John's face, shamelessly and openly expressing his pleasure. "John," he whispered shakily. "Tell me how it feels."

"Amazing." John's voice was low, cracking in pleasure. "Always forget...how good it feels...til we do it again. Fuck. Love having you inside me- now. Come on, Sherlock. Fuck me now."

Sherlock paused at John's filthy demand, feeling the surge of his own orgasm threatening, suddenly very dangerously close. He quickly pulled his fingers from John's body and gripped at the base of his cock, desperately trying to keep himself from coming. He heaved in a few shaky inhales, closing his eyes and trying to distance himself from thoughts of climax, willing it away with firm resolve. When Sherlock felt the danger had passed, he quickly poured more lube onto his shaking palm and slicked himself up, trying not to give his cock too much stimulation, afraid of taking himself too far to the brink- he could still feel his orgasm hovering in the background, just out of reach.

Swallowing thickly, he positioned himself between John's spread legs, raising them up and resting them on his shoulders before leaning forward to press the tip of his wet cock against John's slick entrance. "Are you ready?" He asked, voice wobbly and strained, muscles corded with the need to thrust.

As John sensed Sherlock's hips and cock quivering with the need to fuck him blind, he bit his bottom lip fiendishly, dark-blue eyes meeting the dilated grey-greens of his partner. He knew the effect dirty talk could have on Sherlock, and while he knew Sherlock had the unfortunate habit of climaxing prematurely when they did this and obviously didn't want him to _make_ him suffer that, John thought he could safely risk it.

John gave Sherlock a stern look and employed his brook-no-nonsense Captain's voice. "Fuck me, Sherlock. Right now. Fuck me like it's the first and last time. _Wreck. Me_."

Sherlock gasped, mindlessly bucking his hips forward, driving his cock into John in one hard slide. He groaned, tortured, at the rare feeling of the tight, wet heat of John's body clasped around him and Sherlock instantly set up a harsh, pounding rhythm, thoughtlessly rutting, hard and fast, into that slick hotness. Little shuddering cries slipped from his mouth as white, hot arousal surged in his body, climbing higher and higher.

He could hear John cursing beneath him and Sherlock realized- with a sick twist in his gut- that he was probably hurting him, that he hadn't given him time to adjust. Shaking, with an embarrassing herculean effort, Sherlock managed to gain control of himself and stop his animalistic thrusting. He paused with his cock buried deep inside John, his entire body shaking with need.

"No- no! Don't stop! _Don't stop_!" John growled feverishly, voice tight, clenching his trembling, damp thighs, bucking his hips up in an attempt to fuck himself on Sherlock's cock.

"_John_-" Sherlock grated hoarsely, resting his head against John's knee and dutifully pushing himself in and out, though at a slightly gentler pace. He had enough control this time to blindly try and find John's prostate with each inward glide and he knew he'd finally found it when John shouted, his legs going stiff around him.

"Oh…_oh fuck, yes_. Yes- Sherlock…_right there_!" John reached up and pulled Sherlock closer, tangling his hands in Sherlock's curls and mashing their lips together. The move almost bent him in half and John could feel his muscles protesting but the angle allowed Sherlock to go deeper, harder, faster, and he couldn't be arsed to care. He'd worry about it fucking _later_.

Sherlock panted against John's lips, his eyes clenched closed in concentration. He could feel his orgasm, coiled tightly in his groin, starting to unclench, rising at the base of his spine, and he choked, reaching between them to grasp John's cock and stroke it frantically.

John jerked, shuddering wordlessly for a few seconds, before letting out a strangled plea between sharp hisses and gasps of imminent ecstasy. "Sh...Sherl...close..._fuck me…now. Hard. Oh…Christ almighty Sherlock- harder!"_

Sherlock huffed and picked up the speed and intensity of his thrusts, not wanting to disappoint John, wanting to see his lover come hard from being fucked, but feeling as if he were hanging on to his control by a thread. He could hear John chanting his name, his voice throaty, and Sherlock made the mistake of opening his eyes and looking at John: his eyes were closed in mounting pleasure, back arched, mouth parted provocatively as he raggedly panted, his cock red and hard and leaking.

Sherlock cried out at the sight and shut his eyes, hands clenching on John's hips, desperately trying to stop his climax from crashing over him.

"Oh! J - John. ..John- are you close?" He babbled, almost sobbing with frustration and despair and need. "Please….oh…oh, please, John! Please!"

"Yes- yes, fuck, Sherlock- just a little more…hold on, love- hold on, bit more!"

Sherlock tried.

He sped up the movements of his hand on John's cock, repeatedly swiping his thumb over the tip in an effort to make him come quicker, but the convulsive clench of John's body around his cock, an exquisite, rare sensation, coupled with the punishing pace Sherlock had set up, was his undoing. He teetered on the cusp of his orgasm for a few breathless seconds, valiantly trying to stall it, just for a few more seconds, just until John came- _please, oh please-..._and then failed spectacularly. He jammed his cock in one more time and came, spurting into John's body in sharp, quick bursts, shouting a garbled version of John's name, his skin tingling as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him.

John clenched his teeth hard, forehead distorted by anguished crinkles, and as Sherlock's blood-hot release flooded inside him, he struggled on the absolute brink of his own orgasm, body juddering in need. "Sherl...Sherl..._more_...more!"

Sherlock whimpered and pressed himself closer, making sure his softening cock stayed lodged inside John and fumbled between them, grasping John's cock, which he had let go of in the midst of his orgasm, again and pumping it quickly, hand hot and wet from sweat and precome.

"That's it….Yes….Mmm- _harder_...f-fuck..._god_..._fuck_..._Faster_!" John shouted, as the exhausted detective did his best to finish his wildly bucking doctor off.

Sherlock's cock, softened, slipped out of John's arse- John growled in protest- and so, never stopping his urgent hand at John's cock, Sherlock jammed three fingers of his other hand inside John's loosened hole and pumped them, fucked John with them, twisting his wrist and deliberately stroking over John's sensitive prostate.

"_All_ of 'em," John spluttered, his muscles shivering, his hips jumping, unable to stay still as his pleasure built and built, his face a vision of beautiful agony, his voice raw and torn. Sherlock started to protest but, one look at John's contorted face, and he unquestioningly jammed the rest of his fingers into John's arse, inhaling as he watched John's hole stretch to accommodate them. It was a matter of mere seconds before John halted all movement in a sudden, stunning, wordless freeze-frame, before coming explosively, his muscles clamping down on Sherlock's hand and his cock pulsing over and over, hot semen dripping over Sherlock's fingers and spattering onto his stomach. John howled, forcing out furious sounds that must have burned his throat with their intensity as he rode out what appeared to be an unnaturally long series of climactic aftershocks. Sherlock had never seen John come so hard.

John finally slumped against the bed, boneless, and blinked up at Sherlock, smiling tiredly. "Fuck...Sherlock." He sighed, stretching his overworked muscles, blissfully relaxed.

"...Was...was that okay?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, caressing John's damp stomach lovingly, vaguely aware that it was probably a stupid question but he felt embarrassed that he'd come so quickly, that he'd had so little control of himself. Sherlock knew he would probably get better, would gain more stamina, the more he and John did this, but it was so uncommon for him to penetrate John that he hadn't had the chance. "I'm sorry I...that I...so quickly...before you even..." Sherlock trailed off, embarrassed, blushing.

He frowned, confused, when John chuckled and grabbed hold of him for a deep, endorphin- and love-fuelled snog. The ashen-haired doctor pulled back after the dizzying contact, and grinned.

"That was mind-blowing, Sherl."

Sherlock took John at his word and grinned, pleased that he'd pleased John and quickly kissed him before pulling away and vaulting from the bed. "Ok. Great. We got off. Now we need to shower and get ready. If your libido makes us late, John..." Sherlock threatened over his shoulder as he dashed from the room naked.

The shattered doctor gingerly propped himself up into a sitting position, grimacing as he felt Sherlock's release leak from him and onto the mattress. He sighed, making a mental note that he _really_ needed to invest in more bedsheets.

* * *

A mere thirty minutes later, John was being pulled down Baker Street by his hand, stifling a yawn and groggily appraising the cool, dove-grey sky.

"Christ, Sherlock, it's too fucking early." John complained without much heat, watching as his boyfriend flagged down a cab. The brunette turned, with fire in his pale eyes, and promptly dragged John in for a searing, sloppy kiss.

"I'll make it up to you," Sherlock promised, before seizing his partner's hand once more and tugging him towards the waiting cab.

The ride to the museum where the exhibit was being held was silent but filled with excited tension. Sherlock was so wound up and eager he couldn't sit still. He absently drummed his fingers on the side of his seat as if urging the cab faster. He shot John happy smiles and fidgeted, twisting around in his seat to look at the passing city as if he were a tourist. John captured Sherlock's drumming fingers with his own and gave him a patient smile but didn't reprimand him or tell him to calm down. Ever since they'd heard that Gunther von Hagens was coming to London, it'd been all Sherlock could talk about. John knew more about von Hagens and his techniques and his exhibits than anyone else, just from listening to Sherlock rhapsodize about him.

He wanted Sherlock to enjoy the day and didn't want anything to ruin it for him.

John allowed himself to be manhandled from the taxi after Sherlock had paid the fare, being dragged awkwardly across the back seat, the detective's hand never relinquishing its' possessive grip on his own. As the cab trundled away, Sherlock treated John to one of his truly-honest, crinkly grins, his teeth flashing adorably. Before he knew it, John was being swept up into another enamoured kiss.

John pulled back after a few seconds, chuckling. "Easy, boy," he reprimanded and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in a predatory fashion and looked ready to strike again, when John suddenly halted the taller man with flat palms on his sumptuous purple shirt, his expression inexplicably anxious.

"_Shit_, stop, Sherl," John warned, as his blue eyes focussed on something over the detective's shoulder. Sherlock immediately froze, worry clawing at him over whatever it was that had made John so uncomfortable.

"John, what-"

"Come on," John said, taking Sherlock's hand and attempting to pull him away, further down the road. "Let's grab a coffee before we go in- come back a little later-"

Sherlock, though, resisted, standing firm on the pavement and refusing to budge. He turned and scrutinized the three other people on the street which were within John's range of vision. Once he had discounted the elderly Asian woman and the younger female student (which took approximately eleven seconds), his piercing eyes fell on the young man who had, by now, met his gaze and clearly recognised him, faltering in his previously determined stride.

Sherlock's eyes swept over him, quickly deducing him, and he turned to John who was looking apprehensive and resigned. "Jason, I take it?"

John sighed. "Yeah…Look, Sherlock, we can avoid him-"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, eyes trained on the man who was openly staring at them, malice and disgust twisting his features. "Let's go over and have a chat."

"Sherlock..." John uttered, shaking his head. "I don't want any more trouble." He knew if they went over and talked to Jason it would only end in a fight. Jason, from the way he was looking, was still furious over what had happened and would no doubt say cruel, hurtful things to Sherlock. What he said would make John angry, but John was afraid anything Jason said would hurt Sherlock, would wound the soft, vulnerable heart Sherlock always claimed he didn't have but frequently wore on his sleeve.

And if Jason said something to hurt Sherlock, John would have to kill the bastard.

Sherlock, still staring at Jason, was less belligerent and more...curious. He observed the residual bruising of the man's broken nose with clinical fascination, before grinning at the thought that his John had done the damage in his, Sherlock's, defence. He squeezed John's hand in a silent 'thank you' gesture.

John, feeling small under Jason's glare, had to very consciously resist pulling his hand away reflexively.

Sherlock either didn't notice or chose not to comment, but he did drop John's hand and, burying his own in the pockets of his coat, stalked over to where Jason stood. John hurried to follow him, ready to protect Sherlock if he needed to.

Sherlock and Jason were comparatively equal in their considerable height, but, even eye-to-eye, Sherlock managed to loom over him with a practically supernatural superiority. He grinned, an ostensibly friendly grin, but John groaned when he recognized it and realised what Jason was about to be subjected to.

"Good morning," Sherlock murmured in his hypnotic baritone. "I don't believe we've met." He didn't miss the reflexive, nervous swallow of the other man, and the unnaturally rapid blinks of his eyes. He watched the flicker of Jason's eyes to John, telling and obvious to Sherlock's in its implications, then smirked triumphantly.

"No, we haven't." Jason said, his voice dripping with disdain even as his eyes did a rude up and down sweep of Sherlock's body. "I know of you though. You're the consulting fairy John Watson's shagging."

"And you're the repressed fairy John Watson has no interest in," Sherlock retorted, still grinning, though now his pale eyes were fiercely cold.

Jason's eyes comically widened and he physically rocked back on his heels, his cheeks flushing as he looked from Sherlock to John. "What...what the fuck are you talking about? I'm not gay."

John cleared his throat pointedly, tapping Sherlock on the arm, but the detective ignored him.

"Apart from the rather obvious stereotypical signs- your use of hair product, the turn of your collar, that particular brand of shoe, your stance, and the rather obvious way you stare at one's face and then their crotch- you are clearly agitated by John's presence, and deeply irritated and jealous of mine."

Jason scoffed, derisive, clearly trying to rally himself after Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions. "That's bollocks. That's all utter bollocks. Jealous? Of you? You really are full of yourself, huh? What would I be jealous of, you cock-sucking filth? Getting fucked up the arse on a daily basis?"

"You are gasping for cock," Sherlock said simply, completely oblivious as a middle-aged banker passed them and gave the detective a stunned look and a couple of indignant, choice words. The brunette continued regardless. "You were more than happy to work with John for almost a year at the surgery- a position, incidentally, you may find your employers are having second thoughts about after an 'anonymous' report of a hate crime committed by you has been filed- because you fancied yourself in love with him but, thinking he was straight because of the…_excessive_ number of women he shagged, you kept your silence. It wasn't until you found out he was dating me that you realized he may not be as straight as you originally thought and so spilled your vitriol in a very public display, hoping to shame John and purge yourself of the shameful way you felt for having fancied yourself in love with him. You're still pining for the second man who ever made love to you- yes, you have had a few homosexual relationships- but your powers of repression are truly impressive, if somewhat overt. I imagine he did care for you to some extent, but his loyalty to his children won over the relationship with you. Oh," Sherlock added in a sinister growl. "You're damn lucky you know so many doctors. I recommend you get yourself checked out."

Jason blinked rapidly, visibly angry and stunned his face suffused with colour, lips thinned down and white. When he spoke, it was through tightly gritted teeth. "You...you fucking...you fucking don't know _anything_, you fucking prick."

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked sweetly, his face open and honest, a bright smile on his pale, beautiful face.

John, still reeling himself from Sherlock's deductions, realized what was about to happen a split second before it did. He was too slow to stop Jason as he drew back his hand and slapped Sherlock- hard- across his cheek. Sherlock's head whipped around sharply, the loud crack echoing in the morning air.

John, his hands curled into fists at his sides, advanced on Jason but Sherlock stopped him.

"Let him go." He said, frowning after the retreating back of Jason, rubbing his knuckles thoughtfully over his reddened cheek, before grinning again. "I think I got everything right."

John stared after Jason, disquieted. "Does he really... I mean, you said..."

"What do you think I was implying, John?" Sherlock asked with interest, a cheeky smile lighting up his face.

John frowned, not sure the detective should be laughing over what he'd just revealed about his former co-worker. "That he's got something- been infected at some point..."

"He certainly has. The human papilloma virus. Caught from his last lover."

John blinked, rewound that and repeated Sherlock's words. "The human papilloma virus? You mean he's not...you just... Jesus, Sherlock, you can't just say something like that to someone..." John chuckled.

"I said nothing at all. I said he should get checked out. If he wants to jump to the worst conclusions, that's his problem. Besides, he deserves it for being a dick," Sherlock finished succinctly, shrugging calmly before leaning down and pecking John on the lips. John kissed him back, grinning from ear to ear.

"You're amazing." He said, watching as Sherlock's eyes sparkled back at him. "Now, shall we go and view the exhibit, Mr. Holmes?" He asked, offering Sherlock his arm.

"Just...just a second," Sherlock murmured, taking John's face between his hands and proceeding to ravage his mouth with a delighted, faint moan of happiness. He pulled away, licking his lips, savouring the taste of John, and then took John's proffered arm. "Lead on, Mr. Watson, lead on."


	8. Chapter 8

**So, we lied again. There will be one more chapter after this one. A short (we think) epilogue. :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It was a lazy, drizzly morning and Sherlock, hunched over the kitchen table, a brutally-sharp scalpel gripped surely and knowledgeably between fingers and thumb, latex gloves covering his long, pale hands, muttered to himself as he peered into his high-powered microscope.

"...Hepatocytes...remarkably intact...extraordinary density and ..."

He groaned and pushed away from his microscope for a second, detecting a distinct chill on his clavicle and biceps and shrugging his loose silk dressing-gown over his shoulders once more, wrapping the cloth tightly around him before hunching back over his experiment.

"Sherlock! I'm about to head out to meet my parents- Oh, there you are. Thought you were still in bed. I'll be back in - _what the hell is that_?" John stopped dead in the doorway to the kitchen, frowning at _the thing_ Sherlock was studying.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to finish his experiment, Sherlock stood from the table, not surprised John hadn't noticed he'd left the bed some three hours earlier. He gritted his teeth and stretched his arms in a grinding, pleasurable spasm of muscles which had grown cramped in the long hours he'd been sitting at the table. He softly moaned in gratification and, after peeling off his latex gloves, throwing them carelessly aside, where they caught on the microscope with a faint, rubbery splat, rubbed his eyes to clear the fogginess.

"_That_ is a plasticised baboon liver."

"A plasticised-? Christ. Is that from that exhibit we went to last week?"

"Of course, John. Don't you remember?"

"Remember what? You stealing a bloody plasticised baboon liver from the museum- no, Sherlock, I don't remember that." John strode further into the kitchen to peer at the thing. "How'd you even get it out of there?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Easy. Have you ever _tried_ shoplifting, John? It's _remarkably_ easy. Especially when you act so overt, it's covert. In this case, they had the liver just lying around. Anyone could have taken it."

"Mm...no. Not just anyone. Takes a special brand of crazy to nick displays-"

"It was hardly a _display_, John." Sherlock scoffed. "I _liberated_ it from the storeroom. No one was using it. It very likely would have got binned if I hadn't rescued it."

John snorted, shaking his head, his lips curling up into an amused smile, and Sherlock was about to cup a long hand to John's face for a good-morning kiss, when the smaller man twisted away, thumbing at his obnoxiously chiming phone.

Sherlock grimaced petulantly.

"Hello? Yeah...yeah, dad, I'll be there soon."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched John stroll into their sitting room, mobile pressed to his ear.

"Tell mum I'm on my way. There's no reason for her to worry...Yeah, I'm walking to the restaurant... No, I don't think I'll get mugged...Yeah-...No, I don't think he's coming. Mhm. Ok- yeah, dad- yeah- ok-…See you soon." John hung up, sighing, and turned back to Sherlock. "That was-"

"Your father- obviously." Sherlock gave John a look of utter incredulity. "You...'don't think you'll get mugged?'"

John shook his head." Mum. She gets...weird ideas. Thinks the city's the place you come to get mugged, murdered, and raped. It's...well. That's just how she is. Irrational. Was even worse when me and Harry were kids. More annoying now because we're old enough to take care of ourselves. Or well...I am. Can't say the same about Harry."

Sherlock opened his mouth to expound his statistics on London's male rape crimes, the high ratio of rapes to murders, and inform John of a relevant rape-murder involving a drag queen which had happened two streets over less than three years ago…but changed his mind at the last second.

"...Do your parents know?" He asked instead, following after John into the sitting room, giving him a cheeky grin.. "Do they have _any_ idea the sort of trouble we get into?"

John snorted. "They don't read my blog, if that's what you're getting at. Harry tells them enough to keep them worried, though. I think she does it just to be mean. She knows what mum's like." He shrugged. "Anyway, I'm off. Don't try microwaving that baboon's liver-"

"Why am I not invited?"

John blinked in surprise. "...Well...I just assumed, you know...you're not really into family gatherings...and _don't_ get me wrong Sherlock, I would _love_ you to meet my parents...I just know you would hate it."

Sherlock sniffed and sauntered over to his violin, plucking it from the stand and giving it a few nonchalant twangs before turning towards the window. "I see. Well. I hope you have fun, John." He kept his eyes fixed on his violin, adding the tiniest of hurt wobbles to his voice as he did so.

He could barely contain his victorious smirk when he heard John pause in the doorway. Sherlock bit his bottom lip, trying to restrain his satisfaction at being able to manipulate his doctor so easily. He let out a soft, barely-audible sniff, cleared his throat loudly, then began playing a deafening rendition of the maudlin Godfather theme.

"Sherlock..." John took a step forward, then another, guilt lancing through him. He hadn't meant to hurt Sherlock by not inviting him along. He hadn't. He'd just honestly not thought his partner would want to come to a boring lunch with his parents. It didn't seem the sort of thing Sherlock Holmes would enjoy.

He should have still asked though, John realized, watching his beautiful love saw away at his violin, his face turned away, the upset wobble of his voice still playing through John's mind.

"I want you there with me." John walked around so he could look at Sherlock's eyes, which were downcast and sad. John felt like a colossal arse. "I really do, Sherlock. Come with me. I'll wait for you to get dressed."

Sherlock stared at John through his eyelashes, his delicate but strong hands still fingering his violin.

"Please, Sherlock." John wheedled. "I'm sorry I didn't invite you, love. But I want you to come with me."

Sometimes, Sherlock reflected, playing John was almost as easy as playing his violin.

He stepped back a pace, giving John a cheeky grin that the doctor recognised immediately as being one of forgiveness, before unexpectedly twirling round with his violin, eyes on John, losing himself in the song. John laughed, glad Sherlock wasn't upset any more, eyes sparkling with mirth and love as he watched Sherlock play the rest of the song, finishing with a series of complicated looking flourishes. John applauded appropriately, noting the way Sherlock's cheeks flushed with pleasure as he did, and then hauled his love in for a filthy kiss.

"Go get dressed, you gorgeous thing, so I can show you off to my parents."

Sherlock dropped his violin and bow on the sofa before greedily grabbing John's face once more and kissing him mercilessly. After a few seconds, he pulled back, gifting John with his crinkly grin, before leaning in close to his doctor's ear. "What should I wear?" he asked in a despicably sumptuous baritone murmur.

"Mmmm..." John purred, giving Sherlock his own cheeky grin which lit up his eyes and made his face look years younger. "Something I can have a lot of fun peeling you out of later."

* * *

Sherlock gripped John's hand as they neared the upmarket restaurant twenty minutes from Baker Street. The precipitation had ceased momentarily, but the sky was still a plump, indecisive bulk of un-shed rain clouds.

Sherlock cleared his throat and hesitated. "John...what do your parents know about me?"

"They know you're a genius. And a consulting detective. And that we solve cases together. Oh, and that you're the love of my life." John said off-handedly, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze, able to read the other man's unease easily in the tense lines of his body.

"...I...um...yes..." Sherlock nibbled his bottom lip and squeezed John's hand tightly, bringing it to his lips and pressing a couple of gentlemanly smooches there before releasing it. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and, determined to be brave, led John into the over-priced Korean restaurant.

They easily found John's parents in the crowded restaurant- they were the ones who stood up and waved at them, beaming, heedless to the stares they were attracting.

"Oh, lord." Sherlock heard John sigh as he waved back at his parents, faked a cheery smile, and started threading their way over to the table.

Sherlock glanced around, titillating himself with mini-deductions as he passed through the terracotta-coloured décor and dark gloom of the restaurant, eyeing the billowing candles that were clearly obtained from an inferior Turkish supplier, and the cutlery which had only been through a sub-par dishwasher fifteen minutes ago after the first wash had proved ineffectual. The reason the dishwasher was sub-par was because the owner, recently going through a bitter divorce judging by the arrangement of the tables, hadn't been able to-

"_John_!" Mrs. Watson cried, holding out her hands and pulling John into a crushing, motherly hug. She was a short woman, plump, with curly blonde hair shot with grey. Nicely done make-up concealed her age but her lips were thin, just like John's. And, also just like John's, seemed to always be smiling.

John patted his mother on the back, a resigned but happy look on his face as he pulled away. "Good to see you, mum."

"Oh, you're looking _pale_! Have you been eating enough?" Mrs. Watson asked, patting John's jacket and unnecessarily smoothing out wrinkles. "You look as if you've lost at least ten pounds. It's not healthy to starve yourself, John. You're a doctor- I shouldn't have to be telling you that."

Sherlock stood like a tall, lean, study in monochrome beside John, impassive, his hands in the pockets of his coat but, feeling a surge of protectiveness, he sneaked his hand tentatively towards John's, to see if he would take it.

Of course he did. Sherlock relaxed infinitesimally as John grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze, his own posture relaxing as he beamed at his mother.

"Mum. This is Sherlock Holmes-"

"Ohh, _Sherlock_!" Mrs. Watson was just as effusive in her greeting of Sherlock as she was of John, giving him a bosomy hug and engulfing him in a cloud of sickly sweet, flowery perfume. "I'm so glad to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you." She turned to John and gave a vulgar, exaggerated wink. "He is handsome, isn't he? Isn't he, daddy?" She asked, nudging the man beside her- John's father- who had observed the entire exchange with an indulgent smile.

He was short also- no debating where John had gotten his height from- with grey hair and a weathered, lined face. His brown eyes were observant and keen and from his bearing and the way he dressed, Sherlock knew he was a man to be taken seriously. A direct counterpoint to his bubbly wife. No doubt John had called him "sir" as a boy, and not "father."

Sherlock cleared his throat, blushing a little under Mrs. Watson's praise. "Please, excuse me one moment so that I may introduce myself properly," He said graciously, removing his coat, placing it on the back of his chair, and then extending his hand to John's mother.

She blushed and tittered as they shook hands and gave her son a cheeky, approving smile as Sherlock shook hands with Mr. Watson.

"Uh...well. Shall we all sit down?" John asked awkwardly, pleased at how well Sherlock was handling all this and hoping- fervently hoping- his mother wouldn't tell the story of the time she caught John in an embarrassing situation with his best male friend when he was 14 and how, since then, she'd always just _known_ and how happy she was that John was finally _being himself._

Sherlock spent the next thirty minutes, after he had relaxed somewhat and after they'd all ordered and had some wine, giving a long-winded diatribe about the history of kimchi before John tapped him gently on the thigh.

"Want to _have_ some kimchi, sweetheart, instead of just talking about it?"

Sherlock, who hadn't eaten a single morsel, frowned at John, while Mrs. Watson tittered.

"My, my! I never knew so much about kimchi. I feel very smart, now. Don't _you_, daddy? I declare, how interesting! No wonder you're a private detective, Sherlock. Such knowledge. Simply amazing."

Sherlock, who didn't drink very often but had, due to nerves, consumed a few glasses of wine, was a little tipsy. He cleared his throat and gave John a smile. "Your son is amazing. Truly."

Mrs. Watson beamed at him. "Oh, how sweet. I'm fond of him myself, dear. I've always told him what an amazing person he is."

Sherlock grinned at her and John, if he had been looking, would have known what was coming. As it was, he continued on blithely eating, not aware.

"Yes, he's very amazing. He has so many talents. You can tell John's an ex-soldier - he can throw me down - and hold me down, too - with practically no effort. He has _tons_ of strength. And lots of... _stamina_ - Whatever I need him to do, he can keep doing for _ages_. Though sometimes I think he's insecure about his..._size_...but he really needn't be-"

John choked on his wine and had to cough, long and loud, to clear his throat.

"Oh, he was always worried about his size!" Mrs. Watson said, nodding at Sherlock knowingly, misunderstanding his meaning. "I kept telling him he'd grow, though. He used to be much smaller and oh- how he hated it!"

Sherlock beamed with a gorgeous, malicious grin, and turned to pat John, who was still wheezing, on the back.

"Oh, yes...he does grow. Or I mean, he _did_. He's a very _nice_ size now. Sometimes more than I can handle." Sherlock said jovially and Mrs. Watson laughed.

"Well, the two of you make a sweet pair, size difference not-withstanding," She smiled happily, her eyes almost watering with maternal satisfaction.

"Thank you." Sherlock said smoothly. "John _is_ very sweet. Of course, he wasn't always that way. But after I told him about the pineapp-"

"Mum- how's Harry?" John burst in frantically, squeezing Sherlock's leg warningly under the table and nodding along, trying to pretend nothing was amiss, when his mother began chattering away about Harry's latest girlfriend.

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock had almost drained his last, tenuous reserves of patience and 'niceness.'

He was barely listening to anything that was being said. There was no _point_ in listening to anything that was being said. Mrs. Watson, though nice and pleasant, wasn't a woman who had a lot of anything to say. Nothing that would hold Sherlock's interest, anyway. She bored them all with talk of her friends, John's old school friends and what they were doing, and an unnecessarily detailed account of Mr. Watson's last doctor's appointment where (unsurprisingly) nothing had turned out to be wrong with him.

Sherlock was bored.

He tapped one leg up and down in impatience and gripped John's hand under the table as the other man, cognizant that Sherlock was reaching a dangerous point of boredom, was trying to soothe him by rubbing his thumb back and forth across Sherlock's knuckles.

It wasn't helping.

Sherlock chewed the inside of his mouth with a blatantly disdainful expression on his face and tweaked John's thigh warningly when Mrs. Watson seemed ready to embark on an excruciatingly boring monologue about the goats she used to have when she lived in Devon. John shot Sherlock a look, clearly telling him to behave, and as soon as Sherlock heard the words "Of course, they were all nice goats, but Blythe was my favourite" he opened his mouth.

"Well, thank you for having me and this has been very pleasant but John and I must go and have sex now."

John blanched, his head whipping around to stare, wide-eyed, at Sherlock. Mr. Watson frowned, disapproving, and Mrs. Watson paused, mouth still open, her own eyes equally wide, comically surprised. "_What_?"

"John and I are bored and want to go and have sex now." Sherlock clarified calmly, giving them both a pleasant smile.

"Now see here-" Mr. Watson started angrily as Mrs. Watson covered her mouth and John began trying to apologize for him, chagrined.

"No need to be embarrassed." Sherlock said, tilting his head questioningly at John's parents. "We're all adults. _You_ must have done it at _least_ twice," he shrugged, standing up and pulling on his coat. "It was lovely to meet both of you. Really. Perhaps let's leave this sort of thing to special occasions from now on...you are bearable, more bearable than most, I should say, but I suspect none of us would really relish having to spend more time than we have to in each other's company. For the record, I love your son very much and you needn't worry, I will protect him with my life and will always put his life before mine."

John stared up at Sherlock, speechless in his horror and anger, and his father, flushed very red, looked on the verge of an apoplectic fit. Only Mrs. Watson seemed to recover enough to say haltingly-

"Well. Yes. That's…good to know. You're very welcome, dear. It was…nice to meet you." She gestured helplessly, clearly at a loss. "Run along now. We'll call…well, perhaps you'd better call us, John."

* * *

John and Sherlock burst through the door to their flat, the door banging loudly off the wall as Sherlock, unconcerned, swept his coat off and hung it up. John was fuming. Hands clenched into fists and breathing raggedly.

"What was that, Sherlock? _Hm_!? What the _bloody_ hell was that?"

Sherlock, having expected the outburst, was impressed John had managed to wait until they were back at the flat to unleash his anger. He'd half-expected a furious dressing-down in the cab ride. Public hysterics weren't really John's style, though.

Sherlock ignored John and his questions and casually went to the armchair, sweeping up John's laptop and wandering to the sofa with it, laying down and tapping thoughtfully, his sharp eyes intent on the screen as he tried to decipher the password.

"I really don't know why you bother with a password anymore, John," He said airily, pink tongue against his top lip as he worked through the possibilities.

John cursed and strode over to the sofa, snatching the laptop out of Sherlock's hands, his face a black thundercloud. "Because it's _mine_ and I don't want you on it." He bit off and turned, as if to leave, then spun around again, eyes blazing. "Even _you_ know it's not appropriate to say things like that in public, Sherlock. To someone's parents. You're not _that_ thick- even if you pretend to be sometimes."

Sherlock twisted on the sofa, scowling. "I wanted to see how many well-wishers we've accumulated on your blog post," he spat, folding his arms petulantly. "And I can say what I want to your parents. My indiscretion is charming." He pouted, gnawing on the inside of his mouth. "And I don't 'pretend to be thick'. I pretend to be _ordinary_."

"Yeah, well, you do a shit job of it." John replied, coolly. The cording of his muscles and the flexing of his fingers letting Sherlock know he was pushing his doctor to the point of no return. He felt himself smiling and had to work to tamp down on the emotion before John saw and he ruined the entire thing.

"And no, you can't say whatever you want to my parents. That was the entire reason I didn't want to invite you in the first place because I knew you'd get bored and say something inappropriate." John knew he'd said too much by the way Sherlock's eyes, cool and distant, had gone pinched around the edges and his mouth downturned just the slightest. He was still angry, though, and on a bloody good roll with it and so turned away, without bothering to take any of it back. "And clean that mess up in the kitchen. Now."

"_You're_ the housekeeper," Sherlock muttered, glaring at John's retreating back. "Oh, and next time I need counsel on acting ordinary, I'll ask you," Sherlock continued, shimmying up the sofa, his icy gaze piercing John's when the other man turned around to face him again. "_You're_ the one who's got a job interview you didn't tell me about, after all," he muttered venomously.

John cocked his head to the side. "Is that what this is all about?" He'd known that he wouldn't be able to hide his upcoming job interview from Sherlock…but he'd tried. Hard. Because John had known what would happen when Sherlock found out - Sherlock whining that John didn't need a job, that Sherlock needed him there with him, why did he have to get a job, no they didn't need money, eating was overrated, etc.

John took a step back into the sitting room, voice carefully moderated but dripping with anger. "So you deliberately embarrassed me in front of my parents…because I have a job interview?"

"Were you embarrassed, John?" Sherlock smiled innocently at his angry lover as he got up and sailed past him, unconcerned, into the kitchen to continue working on his experiment. "I hadn't noticed. I don't know that I said anything wrong or out-of-the-ordinary."

John followed Sherlock into the kitchen, fuming, his chest heaving with furious breaths. He was about to vent more of his anger, when Sherlock, peering into his microscope, spoke in an unnervingly quiet, steady voice, though spots of hot pink on his cheekbones betrayed his anxiety and frustration.

"You know what I'm like, John. You know what your parents are like. You told them of my...particular nature. They probably would have been disappointed if I hadn't done something flamboyant or odd. Your mother now has a fabulous story to tell all her friends… It's guilt that's troubling you."

"Guilt? Over what? Bringing you along?" John scoffed, anger making him mean and cruel and he knew, even as he said the words, that he'd regret them later.

"No. Guilt over hiding things from me. _Again_." Sherlock flicked his gaze briefly to John's before taking up a fresh pair of latex gloves and setting them nearby, sliding a sharp new blade onto his scalpel.

John spun Sherlock around so he could glare up into his face. "I'm a grown man, Sherlock, and I'm dating an equally grown man who likes to act like he's a three year old on a regular basis." John's hands dug into Sherlock's hips to hold him in place while he continued his rant. "If you'd act your fucking age I would probably tell you more about what I'm doing...But you can't handle it. You…"

Tuning out the rest of John's well-known and oft-recited speech, Sherlock glanced down to where John's smaller but undeniably strong fingers gripped his slim hips and he swallowed at the pressure which was being exerted on the ghosts of bruises which the same army doctor had created time after time in the past during less angry, but equally-heated encounters.

Sherlock swayed forward, letting his cock, which had started getting hard at the memory, brush against John's hip, breath hitching at the pressure.

John's fingers dug in harder. "_Stop it_." He hissed. "I'm angry with you."

Sherlock nibbled his plump bottom lip, eyes a little hazy, before they sharpened as a fiendish idea came to mind. He leaned down to John's ear and whispered in a baritone that made a convulsive shudder work its way down John's spine. "...I did it…all of it…to annoy you. On purpose. And...I did something else, as well."

John grit his teeth, sighing angrily. He wasn't surprised. "What else did you do?" He asked tightly.

"It's a secret."

"A secret?" John asked, letting Sherlock frot himself against John's hip, smiling at the pleased little hum the taller man let forth.

Sherlock smirked. "Well...I was going to see how many hits we got...on the blog...you know we've got _two_ photos now? I sort of...added another one...one that's a bit more..._intimate_," he murmured in a throaty admission. "Remember the time we were a bit drunk and ended up...you know...outside that pub in Whitechapel?"

"Yes..." John frowned, his memory of that night choppy, sodden with alcohol, trying to realize what Sherlock was getting at...

"Well…now everyone knows what your face looks like mid-orgasm."

John's ears felt as if they were ringing, his heart thudding in his chest, and he wasn't even aware that he was gripping Sherlock's hips hard enough to leave bruises behind. "You didn't."

Sherlock, wriggling just a bit to make John grip him tighter, was more than aware of how his words had affected John. "I did. It was a wonderful face, John. _Beautiful_. And I wanted the world to know how much I pleasure you-"

The rest of Sherlock's words were cut off when John, his hands implacable, spun him around and pushed him, face down, across the table, kicking Sherlock's feet apart so he was off balance and insinuating himself between Sherlock's spread legs.

".._Really_, John? While I'm still dressed? Even _your_ cock doesn't have the - _ugh_!" Sherlock moaned as John pumped once, rubbing his cock viciously against Sherlock's backside, his fingers moving shakily and gripping the lean flesh of Sherlock's buttocks.

"Oh my god..._oh my god_..." John muttered feverishly, closing his eyes and trying to get control of himself but he'd reached the limit of his patience. He couldn't believe what Sherlock had done. Everything that day came tumbling back, raising his blood pressure and making the ringing in his ears worse.

And the fact, John thought as he tugged Sherlock's trousers down, relishing the ripping tear he heard as he yanked at them, that Sherlock had goaded him into this, had manipulated John the whole time- all day long- was just...it made him... Christ...it made him want to spank the little brat.

And suddenly, that seemed like the best idea John had had since he'd decided he loved Sherlock and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him.

John licked his lips and groaned, his dark eyes inundated with the maddening and irresistible sight of Sherlock's pale, lean cheeks, ripe for the taking.

"Hurry up and get on with it, John." Sherlock commanded, steadying himself on the table in preparation, his voice starting to go breathy in anticipation. He'd been waiting for this all day. He'd suffered through the interminable dinner with John's parents and now he wanted his reward. He swallowed thickly, remembering the only other time he had been bent over this table - a few weeks after he and John had first gotten together. John had _wrecked_ him over this table- a desperation born of a honeymoon-period animalistic lust. John had been so wild he had foregone any thoughts of legitimate lubricant and instead had scooped up a lukewarm handful of soft butter from the dish on the table, shuddering and giggling mindlessly as he prepared his lover with it.

The resulting messy clean-up had been well worth it.

"There's lube in the- _AH_!" He broke off at the first crack of John's hand against his arse, brought down hard and without remorse, leaving behind a sharp, stinging which made him gasp.

John smiled at the sight of Sherlock's pale skin reddening and, keeping his hand firmly fixed in the middle of Sherlock's back, holding him down as he swung again, he channelled his indignant, righteous anger into his hand and wrist. He pulled back a little more, before whacking Sherlock's arse again, the ringing smack loud in the mid-afternoon gloomy silence of the flat.

Sherlock jerked, yelping, legs kicking as he tried (unsuccessfully) to get away. He'd thought he was seconds away from being fucked by a deliciously angry Captain Watson- he hadn't imagined he'd be subjected to...this. It was humiliating.

It was also strangely arousing.

"What do you think you're do-_AH_!" He cried out as John spanked (Sherlock blushed even thinking the word) him again. His cock throbbed at the resultant pain and Sherlock bit his lip to hold in his moan. He didn't think he was supposed to be enjoying it as much as he was. But oh- how he was.

"This is what happens when you're bad, Sherlock." John replied calmly, letting loose a quick series of smacks on Sherlock's arse, painting the white globes a glowing red. Lovely. Greedily, John leaned down and licked the hot skin of Sherlock's left buttock, gleefully absorbing every little twitch of muscle and every strained whimper from his partner.

"Oh...J-John." Sherlock writhed, trying to parse the multitude of sensations he was experiencing. The pain- slight but stinging. The tingly feeling which lingered even after John had stopped. The throbbing which was centred at his cock- and when John reached between his legs and grasped him, Sherlock could feel how hard he was- twitching in arousal. John chuckled, sweeping his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock, collecting the moisture there and spreading it down the shaft as he stroked him.

Sherlock's head fell onto the scarred tabletop and he flexed his hips in counterpoint to John's strokes, shaking slightly as he anticipated the next strike, his hips beginning to quirk and grind restlessly. John, taking his hand away, delivered a few more well-aimed smacks to Sherlock's arse and Sherlock jolted with each one, moaning unabashedly, his hips jumping back as if encouraging John for more.

John, though, pulled away and reached for the lube he knew Sherlock kept hidden in the bread box. He unclicked the cap as he reached between Sherlock's arsecheeks-

"What...Sherlock, what the..._oh_."

Sherlock, biting his lip as he struggled to find a comfortable position on the cluttered kitchen table, stuttered a reply. "I...I _wanted_ this. I...I wanted you to fuck me…" He murmured, gasping as John's finger traced the sensitive rim of his hole, stretched around the plug he'd put in earlier before they left the flat to meet John's parents.

He heard John's breathing hitch, then stutter out in a weak exhale, his fingers scrabbling at the plug and pulling it- slowly- from Sherlock's body, making Sherlock feel every single bit of it as it popped out. He shuddered, feeling flayed open, waiting on what John would do next.

"I'm...I'm empty, And I don't like it," Sherlock admitted frankly as the seconds stretched out, John's breathing coming faster and faster behind him as the shorter man worked through the filthy implications of how long Sherlock had left the plug in, where he had gone with it, who he had seen. Sherlock sucked in a few fortifying breaths as John lifted him up slightly and quickly removed the rest of his clothes, leaving them in a bedraggled pile on the floor, before stripping himself as well. Sherlock hurriedly shoved aside the petri dishes and various items of dissecting equipment that were preventing him from getting a determined grip on the tabletop; his nails raked into the tortured wooden surface, seeking solace and support in anticipation of what was going to happen.

"_Oh, Sherlock_." He heard John sigh as he pressed two fingers into Sherlock's slick, dilated hole. Sherlock moaned, pushing back into the contact, wanting more, urging John deeper. "You're still so _wet_." John breathed and Sherlock shivered at his tone of voice. John forced his fingers inside, deeper, probing and stretching faster and more roughly than usual, but not hard enough to cause pain. Sherlock hissed and arched into the contact, relishing the roughness. Usually John was so gentle, patient, loving- which were all traits Sherlock loved and didn't want to change about John- but every once in a while _this_ was nice too. Reducing John to an animalistic side he rarely exhibited-

"_Ah_!" Sherlock tensed as John added a third finger without pause, setting up a slow rhythm, fucking his fingers into Sherlock. Stretching him. It was unnecessary. Sherlock was more than ready to go. "Are you planning on sticking your cock in at some point?" He asked, rocking back again the intrusive fingers.

John grinned at Sherlock's barely restrained frustration, relishing every reaction that the sight of Sherlock splayed out on the table offered him. From the faintest twitch of the beautiful blue artery in his left hand that was scrabbling on the tabletop, to the distinctive jerking of his thigh muscles as he suffered a few tempting twinges of a promising orgasm.

"Thought you'd never ask." John slicked his cock up with lube and, placing the head at Sherlock's entrance, he debated for a few seconds, wondering if what he were about to do was right, should be done- but then Sherlock huffed, aggravated, pushed back against him…and John let all restraint sod the hell off.

He shoved his cock into Sherlock's arse in one smooth thrust, his moan of pleasure as the slick, hot tightness enveloped him echoed by Sherlock's surprised yelp and painfully pleasured groan. John set up a quick pace, jerking his hips in an irregular, greedy, and powerful rhythm, absorbing Sherlock's gasping moans for a few seconds, before pausing- hesitating- and forcing the discarded plug between Sherlock's sumptuous, cupid's-bow lips.

Sherlock gasped, surprised, but his lips closed around the base of the plug without a protest and John held it there for a few seconds before letting go, chuckling breathlessly when Sherlock kept it inside, panting laboriously through his nose as John kept thrusting into him.

"Finally found a way to shut you up, hm?" John breathed as he worked his cock in and out of Sherlock's body, fingers digging into Sherlock's hips to keep the taller man in place as John snapped his hips. "Got anything clever to say now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head and extended his left hand behind him, blindly taking a hold of John's backside and urging him deeper, faster, even as he struggled to maintain his position against the table. Sherlock's right hand fumbled against his microscope and his feet kicked, fought for purchase on the kitchen floor as John's vicious, wild thrusts, accompanied with soft, satisfied groans of success, crushed him mercilessly, forcing the breath from his body with every sharp, pounding penetration.

John paused with his cock still buried in Sherlock's arse and leaned over, resting his body along Sherlock's. The change in position allowed him to grind his cock, hard and cruelly, against Sherlock's prostate and he did so, drinking in the agonized little moans which built up in Sherlock's throat as he writhed beneath John.

"God, I am so pissed at you." John breathed, circling his hips and Sherlock cry was muffled by the plug still in his mouth. He bucked against John as John's assault on the delicate bundle of nerves increased.

"So..._fucking_...pissed, Sherlock. You did all of this- today- on purpose. If you'd done it on accident...not meant to...it'd be different." John gave a few more harsh grinds against Sherlock's prostate and groaned at the muffled whimpers he elicited. "But you didn't. You played hurt this morning...because you were planning..._God_." The more he talked the angrier he got, especially when he remembered his parents face at Sherlock's pronouncement.

Sherlock, squirming beneath him really wasn't sure whether he would be better off antagonising, or placating John. He heaved a massive inhale through his nose, quite honestly desperate for breath, as his doctor screwed him with insane precision, his cheekbone suddenly forced against the table by John's hand in his dark curls.

"And you know..." John continued, removing the rubber plug from Sherlock's mouth and carelessly throwing it to the side, hearing it bounce somewhere on the linoleum, letting Sherlock get the breath he needed. "I still would have forgiven you, still would have overlooked the whole-" _thrust_ "- "-sodding-" _thrust_ "-incident...but then you had to come back and act...like a fucking...five year old. All because you wanted sex. You wanted this." John cursed and started fucking into Sherlock again, as hard as he wanted, chasing his own orgasm, openly and selfishly.

Sherlock grunted rhythmically, the strength of John's thrusts literally forcing the air from his lungs. John licked his lips, riding Sherlock even harder, grinning. "You...are...a little prick," he growled, gripping Sherlock's waist and pulling him back against him as he thrust forward.

Sherlock, squirming in an attempt to get his hand on his own cock, desperate to stroke himself off, smirked, breathless. "…Are…are you addressing me, or your cock?"

John paused, momentarily made wordless before he snorted, shaking his head and laughing incredulously. "Oh, Sherlock...You really don't want to get off today, do you?" he asked, seizing Sherlock's slim wrists and, clutching them in one hand, pulling them behind Sherlock's back and held them there at the small of his back, trapped.

Sherlock realized he may have inadvertently pushed John too far as the man set up a quick, punishing pace, his thighs slapping into Sherlock's as he increased his rhythm, pleasured, choking gasps signalling that John was getting close. Sherlock held out for as long as he could, obstinate, not wanting to give John the satisfaction, but finally his need to come overrode his pride and he began fucking himself back against John's cock, moaning. "John...touch me...please...t-touch me, I'm so c-close...just- ung- a little more...John."

He hissed as John bit the back of his neck hard, and he struggled belligerently against John's damp, hot hands, sensing that his doctor was on the absolute brink of orgasm, on the point of no return, suffering every tiny quirk and jolt of muscle, every telling and memorable vocal stutter, every heated and furious, overwhelmed exhale.

"John-" Sherlock tried again, struggling.

"Hush." John panted, licking at his neck and groaning. "You can come...but you have to come from this...just this...me fucking you...think you can?" He asked, amusement in his voice at Sherlock's agonized, disbelieving moan. "Come on, Sherlock...you've done it before-"

"Once," Sherlock gritted out, still trying to get his wrists free but pushing back against John all the same. "And that was...I wasn't...You'd teased me beforehand."

"You've got...one minute...before I spill my fucking load inside you," John warned, before pumping even harder inside Sherlock's arse, sinking his teeth into the back of Sherlock's neck and keeping them there, digging his nails possessively into the detective's delicate wrists, and rutting him like a male lion for a good twenty seconds.

"…And if you don't come before then...I'll leave you like this." John threatened, voice low and dark, and Sherlock gasped sharply. He couldn't tell if John was lying or not. He didn't think John would leave him without orgasming, didn't think John would be that cruel...but Sherlock also knew he'd behaved badly today…John was angry. It was entirely possible.

And so Sherlock didn't waste any time, straining his hips up, tilting them so each drag of John's cock in and out slid along his prostate, making arousal fizz in his abdomen. He gasped helplessly, rutting back against John, concentrating on the feeling, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of his mind that was telling him he'd never be able to come without at least a few strokes to his cock.

He was at a boiling point, the very pinnacle before he tipped over into orgasm…but couldn't…seem…to…go over. Sherlock whined, writhed, and tried to get his hands free, desperate to come. He just needed a stroke. A finger. The barest of pressure and he would come. He could feel it there, just below the surface, just waiting to be unleashed.

John, though, wouldn't help him and Sherlock sobbed in indescribable frustration as he felt a particularly violent nip of teeth just under his ear, a few breathy exclamations, and then the unmistakable liquid heat of John coming inside him, groaning. John canted his hips back and forth, milking his orgasm for as much as he could inside Sherlock's body, shuddering with the raw heat of his climax. When he finally opened his eyes, chest still heaving, he smiled at the sight of Sherlock's struggling body, the needy little clenching of his muscles.

"Did you not come, love?" John asked sweetly, knowing full well Sherlock hadn't.

"John...Oh..._bugger_," Sherlock exclaimed somewhat deliriously, gnawing on his bottom lip and sighing throatily as, once John had released his hands, he fumbled at John's hips, redundantly pulling them forward once more. John's softened cock slipped out and Sherlock moaned, high and plaintive, his body spasming on the table. John's hands tugged at Sherlock, helping him raise up from the table and turning him around to lean against the side, his legs visibly weak and shaky. John eyed the reddened, hard cock between Sherlock's legs, fluid dripping copiously from the tip, and his tongue snaked out, clenched between his teeth.

"Get yourself off." He instructed, groping for Sherlock's hand and placing it on the throbbing erection.

Sherlock moaned at the pressure, his eyes fluttering, before he sighed and gave John a dirty look. "You know that won't work. I need-"

"Come on." John encouraged, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's and moving their fists over the aching flesh. "Come on, Sherlock. I want to see you come, love."

Sherlock shuddered, watching their entwined hands working over his cock- but his legs gave a violent wobble, his knees threatening to buckle, and he gave John a plaintive look. "...N-Not here...bed...please," Sherlock murmured with a deliciously choked baritone. He swallowed thickly once more, his grey-green eyes flickering. "I can maybe...try in bed."

"Perfect." John smiled and followed behind his wobbly lover to their bedroom, watching as Sherlock stretched himself out on the bed, his hand returning to his throbbing cock almost immediately. He stuttered out a plaintive groan as he started stroking himself and John settled atop Sherlock's legs, straddling his thighs and watching those long, elegant fingers move over Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock, his brow furrowed, was in agony. The more he stroked himself, instead of getting closer and closer to orgasm, he was getting further and further away. It was maddening. He whinged, trying to buck his hips but was stopped by the pressure of John's body atop his. And- _oh_! That was...yes...that was...perfect...

Sherlock choked and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, invigorating his right wrist into reckless, blurry action, his arm muscles rapidly beginning to ache with the fruitless, manic exertion.

"_John_!" he beseeched desperately, his hips jerking, his face contorting, teeth gritting needily.

"Come on, Sherlock." John breathed, tracing idle patterns on Sherlock's hips, skirting close to his jutting erection but not moving to help. "Come on, love, I know you can do it."

Sherlock huffed out a breath that was almost a sob and tried.

And tried.

He concentrated on John's closeness, the warmth of his hands, the weight of his body. The way his eyes were boring into Sherlock's own, encouraging him, most of the anger gone from his face and now just urging Sherlock on, praising him as he chased his climax.

John was surprised when Sherlock suddenly emitted a furious, anxious wail, his brows knitted tightly, his beautiful pale throat bobbing with gasping breaths. John smirked helplessly when Sherlock's body jerked, covered with sweat and writhing in desperation.

"Are you sorry for what you did today?" John asked calmly, trying not to let Sherlock see that he was three seconds away from helping his sweetie out. A little orgasm denial was fine here and there- they both enjoyed it- but John didn't want to make Sherlock suffer...too much.

"…What?"

"I said, are you sorry for what you did today?" John repeated and Sherlock gasped.

"Oh- Yes-Yes, I'm sorry-"

"What, specifically, are you sorry for?" John asked, gently tugging Sherlock's hand away from his cock and holding Sherlock's arms at his sides as he lowered his head and gave Sherlock's cock a quick, teasing lick. "Tell me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's arms relinquished their potential strength and he sagged against the mattress, relenting in John's strong grip and shivering with the implications of what John was about to do. John had only gone down on him a couple of times, not recently, and he had always pulled off before Sherlock climaxed, licking his lips and using his fist to finish Sherlock off, never swallowing, or even coming close to doing so. Sherlock still nurtured a fantasy of John deep-throating him and ingesting everything he had to give – and his damp forehead crinkled tellingly as he vividly imagined John sucking him off and savouring every musky spurt.

"I- I...behaved badly during lunch with your parents." Sherlock stuttered, trying to make his brain work so he could apologize effectively. "Unforgivably so. Horribly. I shouldn't have said what I did. I'm s-sorry." Sherlock flinched hard when John enveloped the head of Sherlock's aching cock in his mouth and swirled his tongue around the head, making fresh pleasure burst inside Sherlock's body. "_Oh_-!"

"Good, Sherlock. What else?" John prompted, pulling away. He knew he'd have Sherlock coming with just a few bobs of his head and he wanted a full apology before he let that happen.

"I..." Sherlock blinked wetly up at the ceiling as he struggled to find the words. "I...t-treated you badly when we got ba-back to the f-flat. Said more things...I shouldn't have. It was wrong. I was wrong. Oh- please...John-"

John finally relented and leaned down, shouldering Sherlock's damp thighs and grasping Sherlock's buttocks, hauling him upward as he leaned down, sucking Sherlock's cock into his mouth.

Sherlock emitted an undignified, shuddery, high-pitched groan, and his muscles all clenched violently. He howled when John began sucking him earnestly, wasting no time, no more teasing, seemingly determined to get Sherlock off as fast and as soon as possible. And Sherlock, shaking and crying out, careered at break-neck speed towards his orgasm.

He managed to gasp out a warning when he was about to come and expected John to pull away, as he always did-

Instead, John gave Sherlock a filthy look and sucked harder, not breaking his rhythm, staring up at Sherlock as he came.

Sherlock didn't come down John's throat- pity- but he came in John's wet, tight mouth. Spurt after spurt of pent-up need emptied from his body as Sherlock quaked through the rest of his climax, face contorted as he suffered through the final, electrifying pulses of his orgasm, shivering, his grey-green eyes unfocussed and dizzy.

John pulled away from Sherlock, grimacing, his throat swallowing over and over reflexively. "That was..."  
Sherlock's eyes fluttered open to stare questioningly at John. "Not pleasant." John finished lamely, trying not to be rude or mean about it but...the acrid taste of Sherlock's come still lingered on his tongue, powerful and...pungent. Definitely not good.

Sherlock snorted. "Yours wasn't exactly wonderful either, John. Why do you think I started making you eat so much pineapple?"

John grinned self-deprecatingly and crawled up Sherlock's body to press a kiss against his cheek. "I guess you'll have to join me then. Pineapple for breakfast for both of us." He leaned down to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "Though if you come down my throat, I probably won't taste anything."

Sherlock gasped, going rigid, and his cock twitched, trying valiantly to get hard.

"Didn't think I knew?" John asked teasingly, tongue between his teeth as he stared at Sherlock. "I'm not as much of an idiot as you think I am, Sherlock. But...I still want you to eat some pineapple." He grimaced again, swallowing the bitter taste, trying to clear it off his palate. "Just in case."

Sherlock stared up at John for a few seconds before pushing him away and racing for his wardrobe.

"Sherlock- what are you doing?"

"If I leave now and purchase more pineapple and ingest enough of it, I should perhaps be ready for you in 24 hours." Sherlock explained eagerly, still trembly and tripping over the recently-acquired fulgurite that he had left on the bedroom floor, and fell heavily, staggering against the wardrobe door. Unfazed, Sherlock pulled it open and rummaged frantically through his clothes.

John, stretched out on the bed, just laughed, enjoying the view of Sherlock, pale and nude, rifling through his wardrobe. In his rush, Sherlock tossed a sumptuous scarlet shirt on the bed, and John raised his head and eyed the brand-new tag curiously.

"...Never seen this one before, Sherl...special occasion?"

Sherlock didn't answer, though he blushed tellingly, before yanking a white shirt and a fresh pair of trousers from the wardrobe, then ransacking his sock drawer.

John accepted his self-conscious silence with a knowing grin, before settling back onto the bed with a languid, happy groan. "Oh," he suddenly uttered, propping himself up slightly. "Get me something to wear while you're at it. I'm coming with you."


	9. Chapter 9

**We love writing smut- and apparently lying to our readers. Lol. This isn't the last chapter- there will be a brief epilogue after this. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

Shopping with Sherlock was like shopping with a very antsy, unruly, hyperactive five year old. John couldn't count the number of times he'd cajoled Sherlock into helping him with the shopping- really needing his help- only to lose the consulting detective in the process of acquiring the essentials for the flat and then spending the next thirty minutes trying to find him.

Once, John had even resorted to paging Sherlock over the intercom as if he were a wayward child. Sherlock had arrived at the appropriate till with his arms full of avocados, beanie babies, and cool whip, insisting they were all essential for his new experiment and pouting until John bought them for him.

Shopping with Sherlock was always hell.

This time was no different.

As soon as the doors slid open, Sherlock was off like a shot, leaving John behind to trail after him. John made sure to keep Sherlock in his line of sight. The supermarket was buzzing, noisy and crowded, and John knew he would have a job of it.

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled loudly over his shoulder, attracting more than a few surprised stares from fellow shoppers as he aggressively commandeered a trolley. "Keep up, no time to lose! Where's the vegetable...bit?" He waved his hand in a vaguely questioning gesture, his keen eyes darting around intently, trying to deduce it.

"That way," John gestured, walking quickly to keep up with Sherlock's long strides as he set off for the fresh produce section. "There's canned pineapples too-" John started, only to receive a withering glare.

"I refuse to eat _canned_ pineapples." John's posh diva replied, sniffing contemptuously. Rolling his eyes, John stayed stoically silent, turning down an aisle that contained oranges, grapefruit, peaches, kiwis, and various other fruits. He rather fancied some apples, now he thought of it…

Sherlock, glancing back at John, halted his empty trolley in barely-restrained irritation, practically baring his teeth at his partner. "John! Not now! We need the pineapples. We don't have time to waste on your airy-fairy browsing habit."

"On my _what_?"

"You always insist on taking a ridiculous amount of time browsing up and down every single aisle in the whole store…then you only buy two things and you've wasted all that time." Sherlock ranted. "Not today. We're here for _one thing_. Not...recreational purposes."

John quirked an expressive eyebrow and Sherlock successfully translated the intrinsic, unspoken message as _'But you're just here to buy comestibles that will change the taste of your semen. Isn't that recreational_?"

Sherlock huffed and proceeded to the next aisle, frowning in confusion at the potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and cabbages. He turned to John. "Well, where are they?"

"Down near the end." John giggled, inordinately pleased seeing Sherlock at a loss and hunting for something. It was so rare and, if John were being honest, rather endearing.

Sherlock took off for the end of the aisle, his eyes lighting up when he found the spiky produce he'd been searching for. His hands hovered over the pineapples and he hummed under his breath as he poked and prodded the available specimens judgmentally.

"…Hang on...why is it with..._these_ things?" Sherlock flicked his hand disdainfully at the large green sign that highlighted the 'Fruit' special offers section, his brow crinkling in confusion. He glanced around, looking for an employee. "They're stocking their products incorrectly. Pineapple isn't a fruit...someone should get reprimanded."

John tried, and failed, to choke back a giggle as he watched Sherlock peer around, searching for a member of staff like a hunting hawk.

"What're you on about?" He asked. "They're in the right place, Sherlock. They're _fruit_." He gave Sherlock an amused stare. "You didn't know that?"

"_How_ was I supposed to know that?" Sherlock asked peevishly, selecting a pineapple and sniffing at it gingerly, careful of the spikes. He frowned and cautiously tossed the fruit from hand to hand, weighing it, before holding it up to his head and giving it an experimental shake.

"Probably because _you're_ the one who told me to start eating pineapple. I...thought you knew." John trailed off, watching as Sherlock placed one...two…three spiky fruits into their trolley.

John stared in utter disbelief as Sherlock scooped up two large armfuls of pineapple and tossed them into the trolley before giving it a brief glance, obviously calculating how many more he could feasibly fit inside it.

"John. Help me. Fill it up." Sherlock took up another armful before noting John's incredulous face. He sighed. "I don't understand why you're looking so…put out. _You_ always buy things. Anything I tell you, in fact. Even that posh heated lubricant I sent you on an errand for," He said, unconsciously rewarding himself with a few stunned and affronted glares from other shoppers in the vicinity. He dumped the next batch of pineapples into the trolley while John flushed, avoiding the curious stares from the other shoppers. "Besides, this is all for _your_ benefit. I may not even like pineapple." Sherlock gave John his sweetest, most manipulative, crinkly grin, his eyes bright and charming.

John wasn't buying it.

"Ok, first off, no- this isn't for _my_ benefit, Sherlock, it's for _yours_." He hissed, glancing around them furtively, making sure to keep his voice down and hoping Sherlock wouldn't say anything else embarrassing. John shopped extensively at this supermarket and didn't want to gain a…reputation. "And second- we can't buy that many pineapples. They'll all go bad. You'll never eat that many no matter what you're doing it for. Even if you like it. You'll make yourself sick and just waste our money."

Sherlock hesitated, eyeing the considerable and possibly suspicious-looking quantity of pineapple in the trolley. "We have room in our freezer, John, and Mrs. Hudson's for any spares. Molly might even be able to house some at the morgue."

Before John could start to argue on the inappropriateness of keeping fruit in a morgue, Sherlock shoved their trolley back down the aisle. "Might as well stock up on other things while we're here, John. What do they call the sex section these days? 'Personal items?' 'Intimate cosmetics? Where's the lubricant?" He gave John a cheeky wink over his shoulder

John was going to strangle him.

He really was.

He should've known better than to come with Sherlock on this errand.

He _had_ known better. He had still wanted to come, though. Idiot.

John watched with irritated disbelief as Sherlock strolled off in the direction of the correct aisle with a previously non-existent sense of direction. He wondered if Sherlock had some sort of innate homing instinct for where sex products were located. Would explain a lot, actually.

* * *

John watched as Sherlock plucked up bottles of lubricant, choosing one of everything and scattering the packages atop the pineapples like naughty, suggestive confetti.

"You can't be serious."

"Of course I am." Sherlock held up two bottles for John's inspection. "Strawberry or cherry? I personally dislike the cherry but you've never tried it on _me_. I used the rest of our bottle when I had to prove that a man's fingers would indeed fit into a glass bottle so you never got the chance..."

When John failed to answer, gaping, Sherlock nodded as if in agreement. "You're right. Let's take both. It's possible I could make a cocktail from different flavours and use them when I rim you." Sherlock thoughtfully glanced at the tubes. "I know I haven't done it before, but it can't be too hard and the lube should help... What do you think, John?"

"I think this isn't the conversation to be having here." John said tightly, glancing around as if there were people standing in the deserted aisle, hanging on their every word. "We can talk about this when we get back to the flat, just...pick what you want and let's go."

Sherlock followed John's anxious gaze with a bemused frown, wondering what the problem was. "Have..." he swallowed and looked fittingly awkward and contrite, like a dog which has learnt what constitutes bad behaviour but had given in to temptation nevertheless. "...have I done something…wrong?"

John sighed, relenting, but still embarrassed. "No...you haven't done anything wrong. It's just...well, you get a bit eager and...I want our sex life to stay private, all right, Sherlock? I don't want random strangers knowing what we're buying that..._ridiculous_ amount of pineapple for-" John chuckled, tried to stop, then gave himself over to laughter, unable to help himself, suddenly finding the whole thing hilarious. Sherlock's worried face relaxed into a smile, gazing lovingly at John as he snickered. "Or…or announcing to the whole store that we're going to the lubricant aisle. That was all...a bit not good..." John finished breathlessly giving Sherlock a fond smile. "You're unbelievable." He announced, taking the trolley from Sherlock and offering him his hand, which Sherlock immediately grasped. "We're using _your_ card for all this, by the way."

* * *

By the time they got back to the flat with six carrier-bags full of pineapples and two of lubricant, Sherlock was already tellingly edgy. He grasped one of the fruits after dumping his bags onto the kitchen floor and peered at it, picking at the spikes experimentally with his fingernails. "How do these work?" he queried distantly. "John? Make this work."

"You've got to cut all the spikes off first. They don't just peel off. No- not _that_ big of a knife, Sherlock!" John darted forward, taking away the bloody Japanese _katana_ from Sherlock and pointing out the correct knife, closely supervising as Sherlock started slowly, methodically cutting away the inedible parts of the fruit to reveal the sweet, fleshy yellow within.

Sherlock glanced at John, seeking approval, as he finished slicing away the hard outer shell of the fruit. He licked his lips and quirked an eyebrow. "It's…ready now?" It looked daunting and inedible. A bit gross. But if eating it meant he got what he wanted…

"You've really never done this before, huh? Not quite." John said, showing Sherlock how to remove the core, make sure none of the spikes were left, and finally slice the fruit into chunks. He snagged one, chewing pleasurably, watching as Sherlock tentatively took a chunk and sniffed it, holding it up and observing the way the light played through it before licking it…then taking the smallest of bites.

John choked back a laugh, almost gagging on his own pineapple at the sight of Sherlock's stunned, wide-eyed reaction.

"Good, yeah?" He managed to get out, chuckling as Sherlock took another bite. And another. And then another. "Might want to slow down- you don't want to make yourself sick just because you like it." John cautioned, knowing it wouldn't do any good for him to say anything. When Sherlock found something he liked, he enjoyed it with a gusto and enthusiasm that bordered on the obscene. He invariably made himself sick of whatever it was he loved and never touched it again. It'd been that way with vanilla cupcakes. The almond milk. Chocolate covered blueberries. Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. John hoped Sherlock didn't do the same with sex.

Sherlock devoured the final, soft, sweet chunk of pineapple, his eyes closed, focussing on the sensation of saccharine tang on his tongue. He swallowed, glancing at John with a hint of hesitation as the shorter man cleared away the remnants of their pineapple, wiping down the sticky counter, and gave an assessing glance at the remaining fruit covering the surfaces of the kitchen.

"I don't know what we'll do with all this, Sherl. Not like you can eat it all in one day- and no, that wasn't a challenge don't go setting about trying to prove that a human being _can_ do it, even if they shouldn't."

"I already texted Mrs. Hudson when you were faffing around with the pineapple. She's happy to keep half of them in her freezer." Sherlock cleared his throat, fidgeting, before taking John's hand and, without a word, led him to their bedroom. John, bemused, allowed himself to be towed down the hall, watching as Sherlock gnawed nervously upon his bottom lip, ran a frantic hand through his black curls.

He waited, patiently, for Sherlock to say whatever it was he needed to say.

"Listen, John...what I did today...I want to apologize for." Sherlock murmured, avoiding John's eyes as he spoke.

"You've already apologized-"

"That was roleplaying." Sherlock dismissed his earlier, forced apology with a wave of his hand. "That was...for fun. We were playing. This time...I really mean it, John." He gave John his best apologetic stare. "I am sorry."

John smiled, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's body, and felt the taller man sag against him. "It's fine...well...I mean, no, it's not _fine_ but...I forgive you. I love you, Sherlock."

Locking his arms around John, Sherlock rested most of his weight on him, feeling John support him admirably. "I'm not lying, John, when I tell you this. And it's not...endorphins. It's not lies, it's not...something I would say unless I really meant it..." He paused before whispering against John's neck. "I love you. John Watson. I utterly love you. I don't know why or how you put up with me. I know I'm impossible sometimes...rude, arrogant...demanding...but...I am grateful-"

"Stop right there, Sherlock." John said sternly, pulling away and giving Sherlock his best no-nonsense frown. "I don't want you to be 'grateful' for me...putting up with you. I love you. You're a mad, impossible man who..." John smiled fondly. "...who does ridiculous things to get angry, rough sex when he could just ask...who wants to monopolize all my time and- as much as I complain about it-I'm flattered. It's...incredible...sometimes when I think about how much you love me." He cleared his throat uncomfortably and gave Sherlock another stern look. "So no more talking about being grateful, you idiot. If you want to tell me you love me...tell me that and leave out all the rest. Ok?"

"Would you mind spending the rest of your life with me?" Sherlock blurted out, his heart thrumming in a way that made him light-headed and giddy.

John blinked up at him, stunned. "What?"

And apparently stupid.

Sherlock awkwardly pulled away, averting his eyes, realizing he'd said something entirely not good. "...Sorry...if...um...," he murmured, truly lost for words. "I was...well...I thought…"

John chuckled and Sherlock's eyes darted between each of John's, trying to figure out if he were being laughed at or not.

He should have known John wouldn't laugh at him, though.

"Got to admit it's a good thing you asked, Sherlock." John admitted, face split wide by a happy smile. "I was already planning on spending the rest of my life with you and have been trying to think of ways to make you want the same and make sure you never get bored of me."

"I'd never get bored of you." Sherlock admitted quietly as John threaded their fingers together. "...So...you agree to stay with me, here, in the flat with stomach-churning specimens, pineapples, and tenuous sexual endeavours?"

"For the rest of our lives." John agreed happily, more amused than put-off by Sherlock's description. "Together."

Sherlock grinned, his pale face creasing in a sweet visage of joy. "...Can we, um...you can undress me." he offered, taking John's fingers and placing them on his shirt buttons, nudging them encouragingly.

John smiled, his heart turning over in his chest at Sherlock's sudden shyness. It always amazed him, he thought as he started slowly undoing the proffered buttons, lowering his head to kiss each newly exposed patch of skin, how Sherlock would provoke him and behave sluttishly in the most blatant of ways to get what he wanted- which was usually rough sex on any horizontal surface of the flat...but when he wanted something sweeter, something gentler and more loving...he lost all his nerve. He reverted back to the way he'd been the first time they had sex, when he'd been innocent and awkward, stuttering out what he wanted and blushing over saying those sorts of things _out loud_.

"Just...yes," Sherlock murmured vaguely, backing away from John and settling himself on the bed, toeing off his shoes and socks and burying his toes in the carpet, flexing them nervously as John knelt in front of him. John reached up, bringing Sherlock's head down so he could gently kiss him, slowly stroking his tongue along Sherlock's and burying his hands in Sherlock's thick curls. He didn't grasp at the silky curls, didn't tug or yank at them as he sometimes did. Instead, he used his light grip to gently direct their kiss, tipping Sherlock's head to the side.

They readjusted themselves on top of the duvet, crawling back onto the bed, getting comfortable, keeping the kiss unbroken. Sherlock sighed tremulously, shivering as his last physiological quirk of resistance fell, allowing him to surrender his body to John, slump against the mattress, close his eyes, and weakly flick his tongue against John's.

He didn't know why he always felt this way when they had sex. When there was no teasing. No playing. When it was just them, just John between his legs, smiling up at him with such a sweet, loving smile that Sherlock wanted to close his eyes and pretend he hadn't seen it- just as much he wanted to bask in the obvious love and desire John had for him and somehow manage to preserve it and never let it slip away.

"What do you want, love?" John asked, breaking into Sherlock's embarrassingly maudlin thoughts. John toyed with Sherlock's belt, each movement making something low and hot thud in arousal in Sherlock's abdomen. "What do you want?"

"I want to remember everything," came the slightly-choked answer and Sherlock winced as he realised, a few seconds later, that his brain-to-vocal chords filter was functioning even more poorly than usual.

"What do you want to remember?" John asked curiously, raising up so he could press kisses along Sherlock's jaw, small, licking kisses along the column of his neck, and take his earlobe between his teeth, biting carefully so as to elicit only the smallest of shudders.

Sherlock, though, had no words to answer John with. He shook his head, hands coming up to grip at John's arms as if to stop him from moving away, wanting to pull him closer and never let go. He didn't understand how John thought _he_ would be the one to get bored- when it was obvious to Sherlock that it was the other way round. John would get bored and tired and fed-up of Sherlock long, long, _long_ before Sherlock came close to doing the same to John.

"Do you want to remember how we first made love- and don't argue with me, Sherlock, that's exactly what we did-...the first time, here in this bed? How you shook and came for me before I was even inside you?" John asked, nibbling at Sherlock's throat. "Do you want to remember how beautiful I thought you were? How I couldn't believe that you wanted me? That it took you almost thirty minutes to convince me?"

Sherlock licked his lips, taking a deep breath before exhaling it forcibly as John bit at his collarbone before laving over it soothingly. Sherlock gasped, swallowing thickly a few times before sucking in a breath to enable him to speak, staggeringly. "T...tell me...how you felt, what you...how you felt," He mumbled, rather incoherently, hoping John understood what he was saying. "How you felt…when we…"

John chuckled, sending tremors through Sherlock's body. "Couldn't you have just deduced it?" He asked, pushing Sherlock's shirt from his shoulders and skimming his hands along the smooth, pale chest in front of him. "It was there...plain as day for you to see. For anyone to have seen, probably. How much I wanted you." John licked at Sherlock's nipple, sucking it into his mouth and laving over and over it with his tongue as Sherlock's already nervous composure began faltering even further.

"I wanted you in every possible way." John murmured, ducking his head and giving the other nipple the same treatment. "I loved you...before...then...now...I probably always will." He admitted, raising back up so he could seal their lips together again. "You're...you're...part of me." He whispered against Sherlock's lips, flushing at the incredibly stupid, sappy way that sounded but he didn't know how else to say it, didn't know how else to convey to Sherlock how much he had wormed his way into every facet of John's life, leaving behind an indelible mark.

Sherlock, dizzied and dazed by lust, by the cloying words John was saying, flinched in delight as John relentlessly smooched across his cheekbones, his jaw, traced the little dip of his philtrum with his tongue, making Sherlock gasp.

"You make it...you make it sound like...oh _fuck_," Sherlock groaned, as John's fingers delicately but knowledgeably slid between his legs.

"Make it sound like what?" John asked, rubbing Sherlock's cock through his trousers, his fingers dipping down further to tease at his balls through the thin fabric. When Sherlock's thighs began to tremble, flexing to either side of John, he began undoing Sherlock's belt and flies, pulling the fabric from Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock groaned in gratitude as John pulled down his trousers to mid-thigh, freeing his cock and giving it a few firm strokes. "S-strip me. The rest of the way. Please," he slurred in a deep, hungry tone.

"You don't have to beg, Sherl." John said, doing as Sherlock had asked and tossing the trousers and pants to the side, turning to eye Sherlock's erection, bobbing in front of him. "You don't have to beg me for anything. Whatever you want, I'll give it to you." John promised, stroking Sherlock's cock, gliding along the length of it, rubbing his thumb across the head, moaning breathlessly when it grew harder in his hand.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, whining softly as John's thumb eased a rewarding, pleasurable spool of pre-come from the tip of his cock. "John, it won't be long," He uttered in warning. "Take me."

"Yes, sir." John replied cheekily, pulling away long enough to shed his own clothes and grab the lube from the bedside table. Sherlock eagerly scrambled back on the bed, his heart thrumming in his chest as John crawled up his body, his eyes dark with want but his face open and smiling.

"God, but you're gorgeous." He said, pinching Sherlock's hip teasingly, his tongue between his teeth as Sherlock wriggled and yelped.

"...Was going to say...you make it sound like...like you're head-over-heels," Sherlock huffed, laughing nervously, extending one long-fingered hand to seek hopeful reassurance from his partner.

John took his hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it chastely. "I am, Sherlock. I'm hopelessly, irredeemably, shamelessly, and irrevocably head-over-heels in love with you. Didn't you already know?" His lips quirked up in a teasing smirk when he saw Sherlock's chin start to buckle. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways."

Sherlock, torn between being sarcastically derogatory and happily accepting the heartfelt sentiments, rapidly blinked his stinging eyes, his lower lip twitching, not knowing what to say.

John, though, didn't give him a chance to respond, moving between his legs and uncapping the bottle of lube.

"I love you when you're being stroppy and rude because you don't have a case, bashing around the flat and snapping at me every time I clear my throat." He eased one lubricated finger into Sherlock's already still-stretched from earlier body. "I love you when you're sulking and won't talk to me. I love you when you're happy, when your eyes light up and you're laughing. I love to hear you laugh, Sherlock." John murmured, kissing the base of Sherlock's cock before taking it in his mouth as he eased another finger in alongside the first and began a slow, rocking rhythm, keeping his movements slow and unhurried. He loved having rough sex with Sherlock…but that didn't mean he didn't equally love making love to the consulting detective when given the chance.

"...John," Sherlock managed, gulping inelegantly before wetting his lips. "I...you're so...I'm..." He quivered with a full-body, pre-orgasm jolt, resulting in a couple of strangled gasps and more fluid beading from his cock. "John-" Sherlock said warningly and John sat back on his heels, his fingers still moving inside Sherlock's body.

"It's ok." He soothed, smiling fondly at his wreck of a lover. "I love you when you're coming too quickly, when you want me so much and you're enjoying what we're doing so much that you can't help yourself, you can't control yourself. _You_…can't control yourself. I love it."

"That's...but...I don't...I want you inside me." Sherlock managed to grate out, sighing thankfully when John immediately removed his fingers and slicked up his cock.

"Love you when you're being bossy and demanding. I love you when you try to be bossy and demanding…but we both know you're just wanting me to bend you over and fuck you." John said wickedly, easing his cock against Sherlock's wet, loosened hole, hissing as he breached his body and the first, blissful slide inside made him shudder.

Sherlock's resulting, barely-audible groan was delicious...and after John had tentatively thrust once inside his lover, making sure he wasn't too sore for this, Sherlock became more vocal. His fingers gripped demandingly, desperately, at the tight flesh of John's shoulders, managing to avoid pressure on the milky keloid remains of the vicious bullet wound.

"Love you...Oh, _Christ_..." John moaned, bucking into Sherlock's body reflexively, his body fighting against his desire to keep this slow and gentle. John managed to gain control of himself with another shudder and leaned down to mouth against Sherlock's neck as he moved his hips in a ceaseless, steady rhythm, rocking into Sherlock again and again.

"I love you...when you're on a case and you're...amazing everyone with how brilliant you are...when you turn to look at me because you...want me to be amazed too. God- I'm always amazed by you, Sherlock." John panted, feeling Sherlock's breaths huffing warmly on his shoulder, his fingers digging more and more brutally into John's skin as his pleasure built. "I love you when you're making me angry. Without even knowing what you're doing...and you give me that look because you don't understand. I love you when you're making me angry on purpose...and you know it and I know it...and we both know where it's going to end up but we like to pretend it won't..._Oh_…" John sped up his thrusts as he felt Sherlock's muscles begin fluttering around him, knowing the other man was close, the knowledge making the arousal in his own body coil tighter, spark and flare.

"...John..._wait_," Sherlock managed, heaving for breath, his cock throbbing between them and his whole body telling him that he needed to release, _now_. He forced down his desperation, pulling in a few deep breaths before spitting out what he needed to say as if his life depended on it. "You...I...wouldn't be here...without you...you've...saved me...I need you..._please_ stay with me..."

"I'm not leaving you." John promised, kissing Sherlock a bit sloppily as they were both panting, far gone and dazed with pleasure. "I'm not leaving you. I wouldn't leave you...Haven't you been listening to me? I- Christ...I love you so much." John reached down between them and fisted Sherlock's cock, thrusting shallowly into his body, urging him to come, his own orgasm not far off. "I won't leave you. Ever. I won't…I love you...just you. Just as you are. Even when you're being a dick and we're fighting- actually fighting and angry at each other- even then, I love you with all my heart."

"...I'm...I'm nearly..._oh_..." Sherlock wavered on the edge of his orgasm, voice raw and torn with effort, brow crinkling and his whole body tensed in anticipation.

"Come, sweetheart." John murmured encouragingly, stroking Sherlock's cock faster, his own hips moving faster as he felt the beginnings of his own orgasm uncoiling, unable to stop it. "Come for me."

"_Kiss me_," came the sudden, aggressive demand and John quickly leaned down, kissing Sherlock as passionately as he could, trying to pour all his emotions into the kiss. He felt Sherlock tense, then he cried out against John's lips, his muscles clamping down on John's cock as he came, come slicking between them and sending John juddering into his own orgasm, leaving him panting against Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock could feel himself trembling beneath John's body, collapsed, hot and sweaty, on top of him, and he wrapped his arms and legs around John, trying to anchor himself. He was shaking, his chest tight, and felt as if he were about to fly off in a million directions. John seemed to sense his discomfort and pressed a kiss against Sherlock's cheek, choosing to ignore the moisture he found there- for which Sherlock was grateful.

"It's ok, Sherlock. I'm never going anywhere...I'll always be right here. I promise. I love you."

Sherlock's eyes closed at John's words and he scrabbled at John's body, seeking solace amongst the hot, wet skin and beautiful racing pulse in the arteries of his throat and wrists. "John, you know...I love you? Properly?"

John let himself be squeezed in the tight embrace, knowing what Sherlock always needed after they made love. "Properly?" He teased, lightly, kissing him again. "As opposed to improperly?"

Sherlock rolled eyes, the expression inconvenienced by his wet eyelashes which were glued together in pretty, tear-soaked cobwebs. "Improperly is fine, too," He murmured, "but I'd rather you know that I love you like a...a _real_ person. Like...in the movies."

"In the movies with all the romantic music and the heated looks and the happily ever afters?" John asked, raising up on his elbow so he could stare down at Sherlock who avoided his gaze, still feeling vulnerable and hating it. John tiled his chin until Sherlock was forced to meet his eyes.

"I don't know how else to describe it, John." Sherlock snapped. "I've never loved anyone else before- not like I love you. It's...That's the best way I know how to describe it and you-"

John silenced his bitter tirade with a kiss. "It's perfect, Sherlock. I love you too. Like in the movies."

Sherlock beamed a beautiful, rare, genuine smile, his pale skin wrinkling into charming dimples. "Like in the movies." He agreed.

"With our own happily ever after." John whispered back, kissing him again.


End file.
